White Stockings
by AlessNox
Summary: Mary was told to get close to John Watson, but no one seemed to expect her to get quite this close. The story of Mary and John Watson from Mary's point of view. (Comments appreciated) WARNING - Mentions of sex
1. White Stockings

White Stockings, That's what she'll wear today.

She sits on her bed and rolls the edge of the stocking over her knee, attaching it to the garter belt. She considers whether to put her underwear inside or outside the garter strap. Outside means that she expects to take them off first, that is, she expects sex on the first date. No, inside is best. She's a good girl, or at least she will try her best to appear to be one.

It had taken her two weeks to figure out how to get hired at the surgery where John worked, and two entire months of flirting before he'd raised his head out of his grief long enough to ask her out. They were going on a date tonight - Drinks, followed by a walk to the theatre to watch a romantic comedy with quirky, pretty-faced stars. Something that neither of them would really enjoy, but both of them would pretend to.

She pulls down her white lace slip covering red and black knickers. That took a lot of thought. Should she go pure good girl, or a little bad? The way that John had raised his eyebrow when she had bent over to pick up the fallen envelope at work had told her that ' _a little bad_ ' would be appreciated. The life of a lonely doctor could be a bit boring. He looked as if he wanted a little excitement. Be careful what you wish for, John Watson.

She puts on her dress - Blue, satin with dots, conservative pattern, sensual fabric. She wants it to slide when he holds her waist. A shimmy of the hips during the kiss will be all that she needs to suggest to him that sex is something that she's good at.

A look in the mirror. Hair, short and practical. A bit of sparkle on the ears. A touch of _Claire de la Lune_. Then into her pumps and she's off. She reaches for her coat in the closet hesitating as she glances at the shoe box on the shelf above, the one that holds her gun. It isn't time for that. Not yet.

She puts on her coat and closes the closet door. His flat then. She wouldn't want him to find the gun by accident. Ugly questions might be asked. They could come to her flat on the second date, after she'd had a chance to hide it better.

She picks up her purse and locks her door. It might be best if they miss the film entirely. She could arrange it. They had planned to meet at the bar before the film started. Just a few extra drinks, John is used to drinking these days, and they will be late. _"Let's wait for the next one,"_ she'd say before leading him on a walk that just happens to pass by his flat. She'd run a bit ahead, and then trip on a crack in the pavement. He'd catch her. His hands sliding up around her waist, and then she'd turn toward him and open her mouth just so.

It had to be his idea to kiss her. She couldn't make the first move. He had to feel that he had won her, saved her. He wanted so much to have someone to save, since he had been unable to save the one that he had wanted.

It was a risky thing trying to fit inside the cracks of a broken heart. And this wasn't strictly what they had asked her to do, but there was something about the twinkle in John Watson's eyes that made Mary feel a little bit reckless. So there is a hop in her step as she walks down the hallway, her purse swinging gaily at her side.

She walks out of the building surprised to find the edges of her lips turning up in a smile. She can't help imagining the dark simmer in his eyes as he runs his strong hands up the length of her white stockings.


	2. Reckless

John Watson is a nice man, a very nice man.

Dark blond hair, so soft it makes her want to touch it. Eyes of blue that can darken almost to black. Quirky sense of humor. Smile that could light a city. Dirty, dirty mind, and not too bad a shot at darts. Honest. Too honest. Much too honest ... for her.

Mary was never afraid of dangerous situations. She was clever, a planner. She knew what would happen long before it did. She planned contingencies, but rarely had to use them. Usually her plans worked right the first time. She knew how to manipulate people to get what she wanted. She knew how not to give anything away, and she never wore her heart on her sleeve.

John wore his heart on his sleeve. He held his pain out for everyone to see, right out in the open. He didn't hide his sadness, and yet he somehow seemed the more stoic because of it. John Watson had a beautiful soul.

There was something about his eyes. The way that they looked at you that made you feel that he really saw you. That he wanted to see more of you. They pulled you in.

And his lips. He licked his lips quite a lot. Sometimes he stuck out the tip of his tongue, and your eyes were drawn to it. Your mouth parted a bit leaving space for that tongue to enter, if it wanted to. Why didn't he want to?

That night at dinner, she had watched his eyes. They had looked at her with desire. She had watched his hands. They absentmindedly stroked the side of his leg as if he wanted to touch her. She had watched his lips. He licked them again and again. She was riveted. She had watched his eyes, his sad, sad, eyes, and she couldn't look away.

"Good night," he'd said as he took her hand in his and squeezed it. "Thank you for a beautiful evening." Then he'd turned away and left.

Once she'd got over her disappointment, she'd followed him at a discrete distance, watching as he went back to his flat. Looking up at his silhouette in the window until the lights went out. Then she'd turned away and walked slowly back to her place.

She lay back on the bed and touched her own lips rolling her head back and running a finger down her neck the way that she had hoped that he would have done. She rose then and unzipped her dress, dropping it to the floor. She was wearing a plain white slip, with a bit of lace. She lay back on the bed and put her foot on the edge of the headboard as she reached down to touch the hem of her slip, pulling it up to expose the top of her white stockings. She had wanted his hands on her tonight.

Mary was not a virgin. At her age, no one would expect her to be. Sex was something that she was very experienced in. The fact that she had sex more often than she wanted to. The fact that she used sex to get closer to men, to get what she wanted. That was just something that she accepted. It wasn't until she lifted the edge or her skirt and ran her finger down her leg imagining that he had done it, that she realized how much she had wanted tonight to go according to plan.

How long had it been since she had actually felt attraction for a man? She had faked it for so long that she hadn't noticed that her sexual desire had all but gone away. John Watson was not her type, or at least not what she had thought her type was. She wasn't attracted to _nice_ men. She liked men full of danger and passion, the kind to have sex on a train, with the dead victim in the next car, and the police waiting for them at the station. She liked men who wore black and drove expensive cars, not men who wore fuzzy cardigans and rode the tube, and yet, here she was wanting him, needing him, and he wasn't here.

She sat up and reached for her purse pulling out her phone. She rang his number. He picked it up on the second ring, he couldn't have been asleep despite having the lights out.

"Hello?"

"Hello John, it's Mary."

"Mary, it's late, are you all right, did something happen?"

"Oh, no, I just called because ... I need your help." Mary ran her fingers through her hair.

"My help? What is it? Is it something that will wait until Monday?"

"Oh no, it certainly won't wait until Monday, do you know where I live?"

"You pointed out the building to me once, but I don't know your room number."

"I'm in flat number 512. I'll text you the address."

"Is it that urgent?"

"Yes, it's urgent."

"Alright, Mary, I'm putting on my coat now. I'm on my way, so tell me, what do you need help with?"

"Well, it's a bit of a delicate situation, I don't want to talk about it over the phone."

"I don't understand. Did you have an accident? Get your toe caught in the bathroom tap or something like that?"

"Something like that."

"Do you want me to call emergency, or one of your friends?"

"No! Just you." Mary reached out to snatch a cube of ice from her drink. She ran it down her neck. It slipped and fell between her breasts. She squealed.

"Mary! Are you okay? Mary?"

"I'm fine. Just...please hurry." Then she closed the phone.

She placed the phone on the table and then fell back on the bed. _"Stupid stupid stupid! You were supposed to play the good girl. Why are you rolling on your bed fantasizing about a man in a woolen jumper, have you gone mad? Menopause has finally caught up with you. He will see you and be totally turned off. He will never talk to you again, and the mission will be over._ "

Mary rose to her feet and staggered over to the closet reaching up to take the gun out of the shoe box. She walked back to the bedroom and stood on the bed pushing up a ceiling tile to place it overhead. Then she lowered the panel into place before leaving the room to unlock the door to her flat. She walked into the kitchen then and drank a glass of water from the tap.

 _"Hot flashes. Mom had had them young. The young man from the sandwich shop used to send her into fits of fanning, that is back when I had a mother. I should call John back, tell him that it was a false alarm. Make up some excuse. Use your head. Damn it Mary! Use your head!"_

She put on her shoes and reached down for her dress. She knelt on the bed, raising her arms and lifting it over her head. Then she paused. She sat back on her heels and lowered her arms. Then she threw her dress down onto the floor before falling on her back on the bed. Looking up at the ceiling tiles she imagined that she could see the outline of the gun. The gun that she would use to kill John if he was lying about Sherlock. The gun that she had been hired to use to kill Sherlock if he were still alive, but only after she had killed John. Why was she here? Why had she called him, The man who wore his heart on his sleeve?

Sherlock wasn't alive. At least, if he was, John knew nothing about it. This she was certain of. She was good at seeing things, and John was hiding nothing. He had loved a man, and the man was dead. So John didn't want to live anymore. He didn't want to love anymore. Maybe this was what had attracted her to him. His heart echoed her own. She didn't want to love either. Not since everything that she had ever loved had been lost.

She hid her pain, because that was what you did with pain. How could he wear it so openly and survive?

She heard the front door open and shut. Mary turned and watched as John Watson slowly entered her bedroom. She looked at him, her face full of surprise, even though she had been the one to call him.

"Mary? Mary? Are you okay?"

"John."

"I'm here. You said that you needed my help?"

"Yes, I needed you." She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly shy. He walked forward and sat on the edge of her bed.

"What do you need me for?"

So many thoughts ran through her head. What she should say to be sexy, to be clever, to look vulnerable, to look attractive. She forgot them all and threw her arms around his neck burying her face into his shoulder. The words came out without her planning them, without conscious thought.

"I was alone, and I needed you."

Somehow they were exactly the right words to say, because the next moment his mouth was on hers, and his hands were on her waist. They fell back, and he pressed down on her, his belt buckle catching on the nylon of her slip. His hands running up and down the length of her white stockings.

 _"Yes, John, Yes! I needed you. I have needed you for so long. For so very, very long!"_


	3. Keeper

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

She was sure of it now. Her contract was to kill John Watson if Sherlock Holmes returned, and she had got close to John, looked outside and inside the man. There was no way that John was faking his grief. Sherlock Holmes was definitely dead.

The whisper on the street was that Moriarty was also dead. Honest to God dead! What was she to do now? If she didn't have to be here, then she could just leave this place and start another life. This wasn't her idea of excitement, being a nurse in a two-bit surgery, dealing with patients problems and cleaning vomit off of couches. She was so much more than this.

Then again, she had worked for over a year on the Mary Morstan identity. She remembered those first few months when she had seduced little David just to see how well she could keep up the act. It was easier than she had thought. No one ever suspected a receptionist and nurse of being an assassin. But pretending to be ordinary had consequences. David had never let go of her, and as a normal person, she wasn't allowed to kill him or to run away. She looked at her phone to find another text.

 **[Just wondering if you are OK. Tea? - David]**

She sneered, then she looked up to make sure that no one had seen. David was ordinary. She hated him. He was boring and a coward. She didn't want to let him touch her again, but Mary Morstan wouldn't text back to tell him so. She wouldn't spit in his face and toss him off a roof to be impaled on a metal spike. Mary wouldn't even think of such a thing, because Mary was a nice girl.

John Watson wasn't boring, despite the way he looked. She could see his thoughts in the curl of his lip, and the slant of his eye. He wouldn't flinch at a good impaling. She smiled. In many ways, this life was good. There was none of the dirt and pain of hiding in cramped spaces to avoid those sent to kill you. There wasn't the constant moving, the constant suspicion of everything and everyone. There was the anonymity of life among the masses where you looked just like any other person. Where you didn't constantly have to fear that there was a gun pointed at your back. And there was the odd pleasure of having hobbies again. She had taken up baking in her spare time, and brought breads to the surgery. Strange. She would have never imagined liking this, but something about beating the dough and rolling it tight comforted her. Who would think that a woman who had bored into a diplomat's skull with a cork screw would enjoy making pastries in her spare time. It was hilarious.

She laughed, and that was something worth noting. She never used to laugh, not before she met John. He was funny in a quiet understated way. He made sick jokes that she couldn't help but appreciate. He would tilt his head down after he said them, as if he were ashamed to make fun of a man being gored to death in the stupid horror movie that they had attended on their fifth date. She had burst out laughing then, drawing stares, and he had smiled at her. That was when she had first thought that it might not be so bad if this was how she ended her life.

She thought of him now, funny, sad, handsome John. She could have him. If her job was done, and she didn't need to kill him, then maybe she could keep him. She could remain Mary Morstan. Take the occasional job somewhere far away just to keep her hand in things, and then come home to this place, and John. And maybe, years from now, when she was old and thinking of retiring, she might tell him about what she had done for a living. He might even like it. Would probably like it, although he'd say that he hated it at first. He might even ask her to wear her tight black catsuit and pretend that he was her target, she would let him tackle her, and the sex would be magnificent. She could imagine him licking his lips as she approached, gun in hand. She sighed.

"I can keep him. Why not? Who is there to stop me?"

She erased David's text message and sent one of her own.

 **[John. Fancy seeing another movie?** **The Glendale Garroter** **is showing?]**

A few minutes later her phone beeped in reply.

 **[Great. After work then.]**

She smiled down at the phone and then looked around to make sure that no one had seen. She might... she could... she _would_ keep John as her own, and if anyone tried to stop her... well, that's what bullets were made for.


	4. Mustache

Mary was happy.  
She realized it when she woke up one day in her flat, _their_ flat, and heard John in the bathroom grooming his mustache. It was a horrid thing, looked like a caterpillar, but he enjoyed having it. He thought it made him look distinguished. It made her laugh. John made her laugh. He was the funniest person that she had ever met, although most people never heard his jokes. They weren't for everyone. They were sarcastic statements said under his breath in passing, or like last night, said with a grin as he lay between her legs. She had never thought sex was funny before, but it was with John, and she blushed to think of it.

 _She_ blushed.

Her face actually flushed red to think of how he made her feel. How long had it been since that had happened to her?

She looked up at the ceiling. The gun was still hidden behind the tiles over the bed in case she needed it, but would she need it? It seemed to be true that Moriarty was no more. Someone was destroying his old network, probably as a prelude to starting their own, and so she had kept her head down. No one knew of her new identity as Mary Morstan. No one had known but Moriarty, and if he was dead, then she truly was free. Free to have this life. Free to keep this man who was humming as he admired his well-groomed face-worm in the mirror. She smiled and rolled herself to a sitting position.

Someone might still find her, if they looked closely. Her credentials had been faked, but she knew her job now. Not hard to learn a bit of anatomy, a few terms here and there. God knows she'd seen enough injuries in her lifetime, having caused more than a few of them herself. And her language skills had taught her enough to help her learn the Latin names.

John also helped, once you got him past the fits of stuttering that he went into when a certain consulting detective was brought up. Once he had relaxed, perhaps with a bit of brandy or scotch in his belly, he'd tell tales that would curdle a young girl's blood, of car chases and cannibals, gunshot wounds, and people who'd taken incurable poisons who didn't yet know that they were dead. He talked of his former commander losing all of his men and suffering horrible facial deformities. He talked of sewing people shut after their limbs had been blown off by bombs. She found it all interesting. Somehow he never noticed how strange it was that she liked his stories, but then his last companion had been Sherlock Holmes, so perhaps he had no basis for comparison.

She needed deeper cover. Some place, some role where no one would suspect her of ever being anything other than good, little Mary Morstan. When John walked into the room and smiled at her with that silly thing over his nose, she started to laugh, and he started to laugh too before walking forward and shutting her mouth up with a kiss.

As he started kissing down the length of her neck, she decided. The best thing for her would be to become Mrs Mary Watson. No one would ever suspect the wife of _this_ man of being anything other than normal. How could she be evil, and be married to John Watson who was always exactly who he seemed to be. Well, that wasn't quite true. If you looked shallowly, he didn't seem to be dangerous at all.

But she knew better. She knew that if John found out who she was, and who she had been hired to kill, she might not live through the day. She knew that he had the skill to break her neck. John placed one hand on her shoulder and moved his mouth over her right breast. If he squeezed his hand just so, he could snap her neck and she would die right here, right now. She felt a stab of fear that surprisingly turned into desire. She jerked her hips, and he raised his head to look into her face questioningly. Then that dark smile descended on his face and his hand wormed slowly down her body.

He was talented, John Watson was, with both his hand and his mouth, and despite her experience, she had never been with a man who was so attentive to her own pleasure. When he touched her, she forgot everything else for a while.

When she opened her eyes again, to find herself naked with strong arms wrapped around her and fuzzy mustache hairs tickling her shoulder, she knew that she wouldn't wait another day to start her plan. She would drag him into jewelry shops. She would find an excuse to buy wedding magazines. She would use whatever tricks that she could imagine to make him think that the idea was his own, and when he proposed marriage to her, she would be pleased and surprised.

The next week she baked a set of heart shaped dessert breads with dinner, then she showed him the article where she had found the recipe. It just happened to be in a wedding magazine.  
"The recipes are excellent, I might even get a subscription. What do you think? Did you like them?"  
"I... yes, the bread is very good."  
"Great. I'll sign up tomorrow."

She was waiting in line at the Tesco when a thin man in dark glasses bumped into her, causing her to drop her things. He apologized and helped her put them back in the shopping bag, only to rush away. When the girl rang up her purchases, she pushed a post card over to her. "Is this yours?" she asked.  
"No I don't..." Mary started, then she looked closely at it. "Yes, It must have fallen out of my purse."  
When she got outside the store, she walked around the corner into the shadow of the building and pulled the card out to read again.

The picture was one of Hong Kong, where she had done her last kill. The post card read.

 **Dear A.G.R.A.**  
 **Congratulations on your new boyfriend. He sounds so sweet.**

 **Won't he be surprised when he sees the family photos!**

 **Speak to you soon.**

 **Yours**  
 **C.A.M.**

She looked for a postmark, but their was none. The handwriting was scratchy. The image was the hotel where the Swedish diplomat had stayed. She'd climbed in through a twenty-story window. Killed the man, and left down the fire stairs. It was a flawless kill with no witnesses. Who else had known that she had done it?

She looked around for the man with the glasses. How tall had he been? What did he look like? She hadn't noticed. She was off her game. Someone knew who she was. Someone was threatening to take her John away. She headed for the bus, scanning all around her for the man or any other suspicious people. She tore the post card into little pieces and deposited them into two separate trash cans to prevent it from being reassembled.

Who was C.A.M. ?

There were ways to find things out if one was willing to pay, but she had to be careful. She had to find out who was watching her. Tonight, she would make up an excuse to go out, and she'd find someone who could tell her what she wanted to know. She had a disguise or two stashed for emergencies, and money from her last job. Money enough to get access to people who could search the records. She can't have been the first one to be blackmailed by this person. One way or another, she would find this C. A. M. and kill him before he could say anything that would ruin her well earned fairy-tale ending.


	5. Janine

"Mary?" John said that evening. They were sitting on the floor having just watched a very romantic movie, her glass of wine almost empty, his virtually untouched. He was nervous. His hand kept straying toward the pillow where he had hidden the engagement ring that he had bought her. She tried not to smile too much. She wasn't supposed to know. This was the second time that he had almost asked her to marry him, and she was determined not to say anything that would make him hesitate this time.

"Mary."

"Yes, John."

"We've haven't known each other that long, but I feel as if we really understand each other... as if we have a bond."

"Yes, John, we do."

"And I've been meaning to ask you something for some time."

"Yes, John?"

"I wonder, Mary. I mean... Would you ... um... Would you consider, that is... would you do me the pleasure of ...having dinner with me this Saturday night?"

"What! Dinner?"

"Yes, um. There's this restaurant that I've been wanting to go to. Very fancy. Black tie and all that. I'd like to take you there, if you don't mind."

"Dinner? Why yes of course, John. I'd love to go out to dinner with you."

"Good. Well. Then I'll be off to bed then if you don't mind. Early day tomorrow." He looked at the pillow on the couch. "And I think I might need another pillow for my back. It's been giving me some problems lately."

He reached over and picked up the pillow hiding the ring box behind it as he cluched them both to his chest and backed toward the bedroom. Mary rolled her eyes and downed the rest of her wine before drinking his as well. She had thought that this would be easy, but John was about as comfortable with intimacy as a tomcat.

She gave him plenty of time to hide the ring before she went to bed. They went to the surgery together the next morning, but she left work early. Supposedly, it was for an accupressure appointment, but actually, she was working on her newest conquest, a woman by the name of Janine.

She had found out through extensive, expensive research that C.A.M. was the most notorious blackmailer in all of Europe. He was, in fact, the media mogul Charles Augustus Magnussen himself. He was rich enough that he did not need to blackmail people to maintain his fortune anymore, but he continued to do it, because he enjoyed watching people suffer so much. He was a nasty piece of work, but he was heavily guarded, and there were almost no holes in the security screen that he surrounded himself with... Almost.

His secretary, Janine, was a pretty, opportunistic, Irish girl who was an amazing typist and receptionist, and had the kind of personality that allowed her to take the constant emotional abuse of her boss and still have a smile on her face when she came into work the next day. She had been Magnussen's assistant for six months. A bit of a record if the rumors were true, and Mary was resolved to meet her. No, she wasn't going to just meet her. She was resolved to make her her new best friend!

Mary looked at the snapshot on her phone and then glanced up at the woman coming out of the shoe store. Yes, that was her. She rushed forward and stood right behind her on the escalator. She pushed past the woman as she got to the top dropping her beaded bracelet as she passed. She didn't look back, watching through her peripheral vision as Janine bent down and picked it up. She reached out a hand as if to call out to Mary, and then shrugged and put the bracelet onto her own wrist.

" _The thieving bitch!_ " Mary thought.

Luckily, she had a plan B. She knew Janine's schedule, having followed her before, and so she walked into the gym choosing the machine right next to hers to do her walking. When she noticed Janine slowing her pace, she stopped hers and stepped off.

"The things that we do to get a man. It's ridiculous isn't it," Mary said.

'Hmm? Janine replied taking off her headphones."

"I said that it's funny what we will do to get a man or keep one. Like running in place for half an hour."

"It wasn't that long. I think you were only running for about fifteen minutes," Janine said pointing at the display.

"Really, maybe I should use a timer. but I got in late. I lost my bracelet and went back to look for it." She waited a second to give Janine a moment to recognize her and return the bracelet. When nothing happened she reached out her hand and smiled. "I'm Mary, Mary Morstan."

"Janine."

"Nice to meet you, Janine. Do you come here often? This is my first time."

"I come here from time to time. Is that why you are here today, looking for a man? There are better places to look than a woman's gym."

"No, not looking. Got one, actually. I'm expecting a proposal any day."

"A proposal? Really? That sounds very... old fashioned? Sorry, I mean... it's wonderful that you've found someone. I'm looking, but I haven't found a man who can take my schedule."

"Oh, what kind of job do you do?"

"Office work mostly. What do you do?"

"I'm a nurse."

"Oh," she said picking up her towel and wiping her face. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Mary."

She walked off toward the showers and Mary frowned. She didn't like Janine very much, but she needed to make Janine like her. She thumbed her fingers across her knee for a second and went into the dressing room after her.

She jumped into the shower and washed her hair making sure to come out before Janine did. Janine glanced at her and pulled her towel a bit tighter. She was probably wondering if the boyfriend thing was an excuse to make a pass at her. Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot, Mary left the dressing room without another glance once she was dressed. She left the gym and walked toward the elevator, only to notice Janine come up behind her.

"Mary, I was just thinking. Maybe your man might know some other ones that he can introduce me too. Can't trust computer dating. Too easy to manipulate the answers, if you know what I mean." She laughed, "I see that you don't. Bit of a joke between me and an...employer. Anyway, I think that it wouldn't do any harm to have a girlfriend or two."

Mary smiled, "That sounds lovely, let me take you out to lunch. Do you have anywhere that you'd like to go."

"I'll certainly think up someplace nice if you're paying."

Mary laughed and Janine laughed too. They were smiling at each other as the mirrored doors shut.

Mary's smile was false, and she suspected that Janine's was too, but she was beginning to get the measure of the girl. Janine was an opportunist. People to her were simply tools to get the things that she wanted in life. She could take Magnussen's abuse because she really didn't care what he said or did as long as she got paid enough. She was the kind of girl who would take whatever you would to give her, and never give back. Such a girl could be manipulated, because she would always do what she had to do to keep in ones good graces. She would stay with a person as long as they had something that she wanted. She would use them as long as they had something to give her, and sweet Mary Morstan always had a lot to give.


	6. Sherlock

The day had come. Everything had to be perfect, the hair, the earrings, the dress. Her dress was beautiful. She had gone shopping with Janine who had a good eye for fabrics and had found one that perfectly complemented her coloring. The cost had been a pair of wickedly expensive shoes for Janine. They'd be eating at home for the rest of the week, but she didn't mind, because she knew that this time he would actually ask her, and she would say ' _yes_ '.

The place was posh. The table was cozy. The menus had no prices which meant that they were ruinously expensive. So, they would be eating at home for a month then. John was clearly nervous, so she decided to give him a moment to calm himself.

"I'm going to the powder room. Can you order us a nice wine to start with?"

"Yeah, sure, Mary...I'll do that."

She rose gracefully to her feet, and he jumped up reaching out his hand to pull back her chair, but she put her hand on his wrist to stop him. "I'm only going to the loo. Relax, we're here to enjoy ourselves."

John nodded. She left the table and climbed up the stairs. When she looked down, she caught him pulling a ring case out of his jacket pocket. She smiled, and then went to the powder room to touch up her make up. When she returned a few moments later, he seemed even more nervous than before. She tried, but she couldn't hide her smile.

Mary didn't consider herself sentimental. She had never been the kind of girl to watch romances or dream of marriage proposals. She had preferred martial arts and playing with knives. Even so, John nervously trying to find a way to ask for her hand softened her heart. He was adorable. She realized then, while watching him fidget, that she truly loved John. She loved him. And when he asked her, she would say yes not simply because it would solidify her cover, but because she wanted to.

She wanted John. She wanted a life with the man. Suddenly all of those things that she had discounted like a home and a quiet life, seemed attractive. The thought of having tea, and waking up next to a man who would smile at her and say, 'Hello love' filled her with a warm glow.

What was wrong with her? Was this the same cold-blooded killer who had taken out a room full of mafia thugs with a pocket knife and a semi-automatic stolen from a deadman? Did people like her have a right to marry and live a happy life like normal people? At this point, she didn't care. She was going to enjoy her marriage proposal. It was likely the only one that she would ever get, and oddly she felt that it was the only one that she would ever need. John laughed, and her heart skipped a beat.

"Well then, what'd you want to ask me?" she said as coolly as she could, her cheeks still betraying her smile.

John began to talk, starting sentences and not finishing them. He kept beating around the bush. It took all of Mary's resolve not to lean across the table and pull the ring out of his pocket for him, he was so slow! "Meeting you...meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."

"I agree," Mary said immediately regretting it.

"What?" John asked.

 _'Oh God, did I say that out loud?'_ she thought. _'He's going to think that I'm an arrogant ass!'_ She decided to forge ahead. "I agree, I am the best thing that could have happened to you."

John laughed nervously.

"Sorry," Mary said, but he waved it away and went on. He wasn't phased by her arrogance. Of course he wasn't. He used to live with Sherlock Holmes. If John's stories about their life together where to be believed, there was no one who was more of an arrogant ass than he.

John's brows furrowed, and he continued, "If you'll have me, Mary, could you see your way... uhm..."

She couldn't help it then. She laughed. He was so comical, so earnest. She had already said yes with her eyes and her smile, and yet he forged ahead with the plan doggedly, like a good soldier. She could have kissed him silly, would kiss him silly as soon as he finished his sentence.

Then the waiter came back with the wine and interrupted him. She put her hand to her cheek to cover her smile. This was too ridiculous. Would he ever get a chance to say the words that he was planning to say? The waiter talked incredibly fast, going on about the wine, and John smiled too finally seeing the humor of it. He looked up at the waiter and then he jumped.

John rose to his feet and stared at the man in shock. His hands clenched into fists, as a dozen expressions crossed his face: pain, shock, hope, anger. They stood staring at each other for a moment, and Mary wondered who the man was. John obviously recognized him. Was he a criminal, like Moriarty, come to get revenge? But no, John would certainly seem more defensive in that case. He had a hair trigger when it came to danger. It was one of the things that she liked about him. It turned her on, actually. But it didn't seem like he was in danger now. It was recognition. John's eyes never left the man's face.

She looked at the man then. He had a silly painted on mustache that wouldn't fool anyone for more than a moment. She thought that she recognized him from somewhere. The man who had been confident and joking before, now looked a bit nervous. He said, "Well, the short version, Not Dead."

She remembered then. She had seen his face before, in a scrapbook, John's scrapbook. "Oh no, you're..."

"Oh, yes."

"Oh my God!"

"Not Quite."

"You died, you jumped off a roof."

"No."

"You're dead."

"No, I'm quite sure. I checked."

He dipped a napkin into a water glass and wiped off the fake mustache saying, "Does yours wipe off too?"

The callousness of it! The heartlessness. Sherlock Holmes was alive, and yet he had let John believe... She had thought of _herself_ as heartless, but this was an entirely new level. Even she had been touched by John's loyalty. She had watched him morn, visiting Sherlock's grave week after week without fail. She had heard him cry in the night when he thought that no one could see. Sherlock's death had destroyed him, left a broken shell that she had worked hard to patch, and now, Sherlock simply waltzed in smiling as if it were all a joke?

"Oh my God. Oh my God! Do you have any idea what you done?" she said. But they were both distracted by the sound of John thumping the table with his fist. John, she honestly didn't know what he'd do. She had never seen him so shaken. She had never seen him so angry. She called his name, but she wasn't sure that he even heard her. He was shaking. He took a deep breath and began to talk.

"Two years," John muttered, and no one else moved. "I thought you were dead...hmm...and you let me grieve...hmm... how could you do that? How!"

Pain was written all over his body. He looked like he was about to cry.

Then Sherlock raised his hand. "Now, before you do anything that you might regret, one question, just let me ask one question." They looked at him wondering what he could ask that would possibly make up for the way that he had treated John? He pointed above his mouth then and said, "Are you really going to keep that?"

The mustache? Honestly, at a time like this he was going to bring up John's mustache? John had described Sherlock to her as the most annoying git that he had ever met, but she had thought that it was hyperbole, an exaggeration, but no. Sherlock Holmes was arrogant, self-centered, annoying, and completely clueless as the effect of what his actions had done to John. It was mindboggling. She didn't know how to respond, but John did. He reached out and tackled the man, trying to strangle him to death with his bare hands. That might be for the best, but no... John would certainly regret having killed the man whose death he had morned so much, so she rose to her feet and tried to pry him off the man.

It was all quite embarrassing. They were asked to leave the restaurant. They stood outside on the pavement, John staring up at Sherlock, his teeth gritted, Sherlock looking down at his feet, and now and then glancing up at John.

"So," John said, teeth still clenched together, "explain."

"Here John? We're in the middle of the pavement."

"I don't care!"

Mary reached out and took John's arm. "Look dear, there's another restaurant a little down the way. We can walk there, get a bit to eat, give Sherlock a chance to explain himself, okay?"

"Okay, okay," John said, and he set off down the road. Sherlock looked over at Mary and she shrugged before rushing to catch up with him. This was certainly NOT the night that she had planned, but she did have to acknowledge that it wasn't boring.

They sat down at a table with a checkered table cloth, and Mary smiled at John trying to get him to calm down a little, but all of John's muscles were tense. He visibly strained with the effort to keep himself from doing physical harm to Sherlock. Sherlock began to explain how he had escaped, and Mary sat back in her chair. She was genuinely interested, professionally interested to be exact. She had met James Moriarty before, and he did not seem like a man who could be easily fooled, and yet, this man had killed him and successfully played dead for two years with no sign at all that he was still alive, except for that nutter fan group that believed that he was running around Asia somewhere solving crimes. She wondered for a moment if those stories were true.

John had his arms crossed and was staring angrily back at Sherlock who went into an elaborate explanation of how he had escaped. John stopped him saying, "I don't care how you did it, Sherlock. I want to know why."

"Why because Moriarty had to be stopped... Oh."

And in that moment she understood Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't an act. He honestly didn't feel emotions like a normal person. He had thought of how to solve the problem without thinking of the emotional cost to John. He had not even imagined that John would be upset, until he had seen it on his face in the restaurant. He really didn't understand human emotions at all.

John had been loyal to Sherlock, more loyal than anyone, and yet Sherlock had left him behind like a faithful dog left at home while he went away to school. John was thinking that Sherlock didn't trust him. Despite all of the faith that he had given to Sherlock, Sherlock had no faith in him. It hurt him, and it angered him, and she felt for him.

"Who knew?" he asked, and what he was really asking was ' _Who do you trust more than you trust me?'_ He held himself back when Sherlock mentioned Molly Hooper, and his brother Mycroft Holmes, but when he mentioned the twenty-five homeless people who had helped him, John lost it again, and they had to find another place to talk.

After being tossed out of the third restaurant with John running down the street waving his arms for a taxi, and Sherlock Holmes holding a napkin to his bloody nose, Mary smiled. This was actually the best of all possible worlds. Moriarty was dead. His network destroyed, so that no one was around to come searching for her or John. John would get over his anger. He always did. And when he did, he would be overjoyed that his dearest friend was still alive.

"I'll talk him round," Mary said smiling.

"You will?" Sherlock seemed surprised.

"Oh yeah."

Sherlock looked at her then, his piercing gaze boring into her like an x-ray. Her smile widened.

John called for her, and she climbed into the taxi with him, only then remembering that he had never quite got around to asking her to marry him. Oh well. There was still tomorrow. John would calm down, and Sherlock would keep him distracted while she needled Janine for information about Magnussen. Then once Magnussen was dead, there would be no one who knew of her past, and they would be safe to enjoy their happily married life.

Yes indeed, life was good.


	7. Questions

It takes hours for her to calm John enough to come to bed. He hangs his clothes in the closet without looking at them, the ring forgotten in his pocket. She strokes his arm to steady him as he lays beside her angrily glaring at the ceiling. When she wakes the next morning his muscles are still tense as if he hasn't slept.

 _Has he?_

Mary rises from the bed and pats his shoulder before walking into the bathroom and closing the door. She looks into the mirror at a face that no longer knows how to smile. Sherlock is back. Is the contract still on? Moriarty is dead, so it shouldn't matter, but... not in all her years of work has she let a target go free. Letting Sherlock live would ruin her reputation, if she wants to continue working as an assassin.

 _Does she?_

She told herself that she had given it all up, that she was retired for good? She will marry John and have her happily ever after. That is, if he still wants to marry her now that Sherlock is back.

 _Does he?_

 _Does Sherlock know about her?_

 _Will he tell John?_

 _Will John still love her if he does?_

Sherlock appeared, and John had forgotten all about asking Mary to marry him. It was a big shock. _She_ was shocked! But would that be enough to make him forget her? Did John still love her?

Yesterday she had known what her future would hold. Now, all that she has are questions.

 _Sherlock traveled for years destroying Moriarty's network. Does he know about me? If so, why didn't he try to kill me?_

 _No, Sherlock can't know. Only Moriarty and I knew about the contract, and even if someone did find out about it, the person assigned to kill John Watson was A.G.R.A, and A.G.R.A is dead. No one knows that I am still alive._

 _Do they?_

Yes. C.A.M. knows.

He knows who she was. Perhaps he knows about the contract too. Even if Mary marries John, and Sherlock never finds out about her past. Nothing in her future will be certain until C.A.M. is out of the way. But, everything that Janine has told her about him suggests that Magnussen is a very hard target to hit.

She fills the sink and thrusts her face into the cold water. The coolness and the lack of oxygen help to bring her mind into focus. She gasps, lifting her head from the water and watching as the rivulets flow over her skin. This is no time to panic. If Sherlock is coming after her, she will deal with him then. No need worrying about that now. C.A.M. is a blackmailer. He won't do a thing without sending her a message first. The worst thing that she can do is panic and give herself away.

But why has Sherlock returned now?

Destroying the network would mean destroying the assassins sent after Sherlock's friends. He would not have returned if John was still in danger. Did that mean? Had there been another assassin assigned to John if she should fail? That sounded like something Moriarty would do. But, if Sherlock had missed her, how many other assassins might be out there even now with their sites on John? When Sherlock's return was known, would someone else finish what she had refused to do? Was there someone out there now waiting to kill John and maybe also kill her?

Perhaps her best bet would be to run. Finish the job that she was assigned, and get out. She has a German passport hidden away and some money. She could leave the country fast enough if she needed to, but ...where would she go? A.G.R.A. is dead. She would either have to reclaim her title and come out of hiding or start afresh, and Mary is too old and too tired to have to prove herself all over again.

Mary drains the sink and walks back into the bedroom to find that John has finally fallen asleep. She looks down at his sleeping face. Lovely John, there are so many ways that she can kill him. She sits on the edge of the bed and runs her hand across the sheet until she touches the edge of his pillow.

 _A pillow over his face. That might be the easiest. Hypoxia. Suffocation isn't the first assumption in such cases. Usually they blame the heart. But he would probably struggle, and I've wrestled too often with him to underestimate his abilities in a hand to hand scuffle. Perhaps if I tied him down? I could pass it off as a desire for adventure, a little sex play, but it would leave marks on the wrists. More difficult to claim that it was just an accident._

She runs her fingernail up the outside of his arm, then strokes softly over the tops of his shoulder until her fingers cradle his neck.

 _He's always complained about that lamp cord being too long, a tripping hazard. I could wrap the cord around his neck. Twice to make sure, and pull until his hyoid bone snaps. It would only take a couple of minutes, but It would be an obvious murder, I'd have to be ready to leave the country immediately, but if I timed it right, it might be half a day before the body was found. Then again, there's always the gun._

She looks up at the ceiling.

 _Would it wake him if I stood up on the bed to retrieve it? No one would hear, not with the silencer on. Then again, the bullets would tie the death to my old identity more solidly than any other evidence. It is, after all, an assassin's gun._

She looks down at his face, stroking his cheek with one hand.

 _What if he woke before I could kill him? He would ask what I was doing? Would he try to kill me then? Or would he stare up at me with a look of shocked betrayal. Perhaps he would stare blankly at me as if he did not care if he lived or died. The way he looked before Sherlock returned. John would never expect me to hurt him._

She runs her fingers through his hair.

 _Because John would never hurt me._

 _And I could never hurt John._

She kisses his forehead. She has done the one thing that an assassin is forbidden to do. She has fallen in love with her mark. Such relationships only end one way, only one.

A tear lands on John's nose. Mary is crying. She wipes the tear away, and then leans over to kiss John on the lips right below his ugly mustache. His eyes flutter open, and he reaches out putting his arms around her and pulling her down onto his chest. He kisses her hair holding her tightly. She closes her eyes. Then he rolls her onto her back pushing her shirt up before kissing her abdomen. His mustache tickles the skin around her bellybutton, and she laughs. Then he pulls off her pajama bottoms and kisses lower until she lay her head back and moans.

John doesn't know about her past, and she will do whatever it takes to make sure that he never knows. Sherlock, C.A.M., it doesn't matter who tries to take him from her. Mary is clever, and she is in love. She will win, and anyone who opposes her will die.


	8. On fire

Rising from bed for the second time, Mary feels much, much better. John rolls over and kisses her before going to take a shower. Relaxed and happy, Mary pulls out her phone to read the famous blog of Dr. John H. Watson. She'd known about it for ages but had never got around to reading it. With Sherlock Holmes back in town, that seems like a dangerous oversight. Sitting on the bed, her toes curling into the sheets, she begins to read. It's gripping stuff. Not Shakespeare, but it's interesting and funny. She playfully chides him about it as he grooms himself at the sink, covering his face with shaving cream as he prepares to shave. She stares.

"What are you doing?"

"Having a wash," John says sheepishly.

"You're shaving it off."

"You hate it."

"Sherlock hates it."

"Apparently everyone hates it!"

"Oooh," She says unable to keep herself from smiling. She's never seen this John. He's nervous, bouncy, almost shy. He's becoming the John from the blog. The John who believes in Sherlock and follows his advice. Sherlock didn't like how the mustache looked, so he's shaving it off. It is too rich!

She grins at him asking, "Are you gonna see him again?"

"No, I'm going to work."

"Oh, and after work are you gonna see him again?"

John turns away Without answering.

"God, I had six months of bristly kisses for me, and then _His Nibbs_ turns up and ..."

"I don't SHAVE for Sherlock Holmes!"

"Ah, you should put that on a T-shirt."

"Shut-up," he says in a tender voice.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll marry you."

Mary's smile widens. She's so happy she must be glowing.

She smiles as they drive to work together, and throughout the day as she sends him clients at the clinic. Even the incredibly irritating Mrs Reeves, the hypochondriac, fails to faze her. Mary in love is invincible.

John, on the other hand, is a nervous wreck. Every minute he seems to get more and more distracted. He spends his time between patients staring at the clock and at his phone. He searches for Sherlock behind locked doors and in the lobby expecting him to suddenly show up at the surgery. He even goes so far as to accuse a patient of being Sherlock in disguise!

He sits at his desk after the clinic closes chewing on his thumb. She leans over, kisses him, and says, "Go visit him."

"No," he replies with a short shake of his head.

"You need to work it out, today, before you attack any more patients."

John turns to stare at her, and she gives him a stern look until he bows his head.

"Good!" she says, "I know that it will all be fine in the end. I have to run a few errands before dinner. You don't mind if I take the car, do you?"

"Yes, fine. I'll be fine" John says distractedly.

"Wonderful. You go patch things up with Sherlock, and I'll see you at home this evening. Okay love?"

"Okay."

"Good. See you then." She gives him one last kiss before going out of the door. That will surly keep him busy long enough for her to buy a black cat suit. For some reason, her old one is getting a little tight.

Later as she is leaving the department store after purchasing black leather gloves and a knit cap, she receives a text.

 **Save souls now!**

 **John or James Watson?**

 **Saint or Sinner?**

 **James or John?**

 **The more is Less?**

She stares at it, then she looks around nervously before stepping back into the shadowy shelter of a doorway to read it more carefully.

It's obviously a code. _John ...Watson_. That is the important part, so the words in the middle don't matter. It's a skip code. Every third word, it seems, but who is sending her messages in code?

 _Save John Watson?_ … but what does the rest mean? Does the punctuation start the count again, or is it all one sentence?

 _Now._

John is in danger!

She calls him, but there is no answer. She hangs up and calls again as she runs to the car. She thought that she would get the message before CAM acted. Now there's no time. But she doesn't know what the message means? She needs help, fast? But who can help her decipher the message and find John now?

Of course. Who better than the world famous detective, Sherlock Holmes.

She pulls out into traffic and rushes to his Baker street flat. The landlady tries to stop her as she enters but she runs up the stairs finding Sherlock eating on the landing. She shoves her phone in front of him reading out the code. It takes him a minute, but once he realizes that John is in danger he transforms. Dropping his food as if it is of no consequence, he springs down the stairs. He strides out into the street fearlessly stopping a moving motorcycle with the force of his will alone. Then they are off.

Sherlock on a mission is indefatigable! They ride across London on a borrowed bike, ignoring traffic laws as they rush to find John. Mary spares a moment to think of the startled couple who are currently having tea in Mrs Hudson's living room as they wonder why they thought that it was a good idea to give a stranger the keys to their bike. But how could they not? Sherlock on a mission is a god! Mary finally gets an inkling of what it must have been like to live with him. The force he shows, the determination. This must be the reason that John talks about him in hushed tones, his voice at times shaking with awe. With a clear goal before him, Sherlock Holmes is unstoppable.

She grabs his waist tighter as he turns and drives the bike down a flight of stairs. Her fear that she was being watched is confirmed when her texts address Sherlock by name. Someone is watching them. Someone saw that she was happy and decided to take that happiness from her. She leans into Sherlock as they round a sharp corner and closes her eyes. She wishes as hard as she can that Sherlock is as much of a wonder as John claims that he is. She needs John. She can't lose him now.

The person texting enjoys taunting them. That more than anything suggests that it must be the sadistic CAM. This is a test, a trap to ferret out her real feelings, and she is failing. What had John said about fire and priorities? She's revealing too much of herself in this chase, but she can't just let him die. She WON'T let John die!

Sherlock is clearly in accord with her. He realizes a moment before she does that John is inside the fire. Dropping the bike he runs, thrusting his hands into the flames, to pull John out. She leans over his body afraid that they're too late.

"John!"

He has a bloody gash on his head, and his lungs must be filled with smoke.

"John!" she calls again.

Sherlock is calling his name too. He kneels beside her cradling John's face in his hands as he calls. John opens his eyes, and finally, finally takes a breath. She sighs bending down to check his vital signs as Sherlock pulls out his phone to call an ambulance, his other hand reaching out to feel John's heart.

The crowd is muttering. Mary looks up searching for those who did this, focusing on each face, but the people are milling about now, talking in shocked voices, pulling out their phones to take a picture of the man on the ground, bonfire forgotten.

She rides with John in the ambulance while Sherlock follows behind on the motorcycle. He hovers beside her in the waiting room until the news comes that John is alright. He has a slight concussion, but he will be fine.

She lets out a sigh of relief, and sends Sherlock home. They are keeping John overnight for observation and that couple must certainly be wondering about their bike by now.

She sits beside John listening as he recounts his story. She asks him details, how many men, how were they dressed. She needs to understand her foe. CAM was watching her, and now he knew the truth. He wouldn't go for John again, not yet. He would let her stew while he figured out what he wanted from her. She had two choices.

One was to get out as fast as she could. Make a clean break, disappear. Then CAM would have nothing on her. But there might be a second assassin. Leaving John is no guarantee of his safety. Moriarty was thorough, and his traps were legend. She should know, she is one of them.

The other option is to get them before they got her. She would keep John close. A hostage is only useful while he's alive. Then she would kill Charles Augustus Magnussen. It is, after all, just another job.


	9. Wedding plans

Having two faces is nothing new to Mary. It would have been in her job description, had she ever been shown one one. The difference is that in the past, one of the two faces was false, a front that she put up to hide her true intent. Now both faces are real. She never knew that she could live each moment constantly in two states, one of joy at her new engagement, and one of paranoid terror.

John constantly surprises her with his tenderness, and Sherlock … she would have expected him to be distant and cold, but he isn't. After the fire, he is nothing but warm to her. His enthusiasm for helping with the wedding is unexpected and very useful. But at other times, she suspects him of knowing everything and staying close only to keep an eye on her.

But no, it can't be. Sherlock is clueless. He is so preoccupied with trying to be John's friend that he can't see past his own nose. Unfortunately, there are others who see things too well. She was contracted to kill John and Sherlock, and yet she saved John from the bonfire. She has declared her loyalties, she's switched sides. Now whoever is out there watching knows that she is their enemy. She needs to know more about her enemy. She needs to know what's going on. But how can she research things with Sherlock constantly asking her about the color of the bridesmaids dresses, and what icing to put on the cake?

Distracting him is incredibly easy, however. She pulls Sherlock aside one morning and says, "I'm worried about John. You know that he doesn't really like all of this wedding planning. It suffocates him. He needs to get out a bit. Like a dog that has been in the house too long. He needs someone to run him. Do you think that you might be able to do that for him?"

"Run him?"

"Yes, get him out in the fresh air. Go on a case perhaps."

"Ah, well...I can try."

John comes in then. It's almost impossible to keep the two of them apart. "So, what are you two conspiring about? Some new torture for me to endure at the wedding. Want us all to wear top hats or something."

"No," Sherlock says, "But that is a good idea. Top hats go well with morning dress."

Mrs Hudson brings in the mail then, and they are preoccupied for a while with reading the RSVPs and planning the seating arrangements.

But Mary has to leave soon if she's to observe Janine at lunch. She's been watchin the security at Magnussen's offices. The membership she'd bought at the gym was surprisingly useful. It is only a few blocks from the tower, and it has lockers where she can store disguises as well as showers to remove evidence afterward. She doesn't want to miss the shift change but Sherlock is folding serviettes. She's had had enough of this. She pulls out her phone and loudly begins talking to 'Beth' before going into the kitchen. Beth is their code for let's meet secretly to talk. John enters the kitchen behind her and asks what's wrong.

"I told you to find him a new case."

"I'm trying," John says.

"You need to run him. Show him it's still the good old days." She pushes him out into the living room to confront Sherlock who has folded more than a dozen more serviettes in the few minutes they had been in the kitchen. She listens behind the door as John awkwardly calls Sherlock 'mate'. She rolls her eyes. Finally they make their way to the door, and she gives them both of them a thumbs up. Each of them thinking that leaving was their idea. She waits for the taxi to pull away before leaving.

Magnussen is surprisingly difficult to get to. His office requires a special key card to enter. There is, however, a service elevator, and although this also requires keyed entry, the floor below does not. There are windows on the edges of the hallway that can be opened to remove fumes, but they are small, and if left open, an alarm will sound.

These are things that she can work out in time. What she can't know for sure is when Magnussen will be in the building. That's where Janine comes in.

Mary sits at the coffee shop across from the office building wearing a red wig, a brown coat, and beige flats. She watches as Janine struts by. Then she tosses her cup into the trash and follows her in. Magnussen never exits on this level. He almost always enters and exits through the underground garage. His schedule is erratic with frequent meetings. Probably to torture his blackmail victims. Janine is his weakness. She knows his schedule.

When John first proposes spending his stag night alone with Sherlock, it surprises her. Why just him? But she soon agrees to it. Let them have their night. In fact, it would be best if he doesn't come home that night at all. It will give her more time to work on Janine.

She invites Janine over for a mini-hen night, and buys all of Janine's favorite alcoholic drinks. She will get her sloshed, and then weasel the schedule out of her. She will promise Janine the pick of all of the eligible men at the wedding banquet if she needs to. She will do whatever it takes. She smiles and waves at John as she prepares her strategy. Soon Magnussen will be dead, and she and John will finally have their happily ever after.


	10. The wedding

On her wedding day, Mary wakes up in her bed alone. She can't remember if it was her idea or John's to spend the night before the wedding in separate beds, but it is a good one, because she opens her eyes to find that she is holding her dagger. It's a small sliver of super strong plastic and mother of pearl disguised as a bookmark that she always keeps in a cheap novel next to her bed. It has come in useful more than once.

She takes a breath, calming herself as she tries to remember her dream. She was the heroine in the Hitchcock movie, Notorious. Alicia was her name. A spy who ends up marrying the man that she is spying on. John had forced on her the tradition of _Movie Nights,_ insisting that she see the famous key scene. Although she had said nothing at the time, something about the movie disturbed her. For days afterward she was reminded of the heroine trapped between her love and her duty.

Betrayal.

Marrying John without telling him who she was is a betrayal.

She takes another breath, forcing herself to put the knife away. Then she lies back remembering… a large house, a sweeping stairway. Black and white images that gain color in her mind until she can see the burgundy of the wine, the blush of red lips. It was romanticized, simplified, much too glamorous to be real, even so, she understands how it must have felt to be Alicia, wondering if love should even matter, working for a country that didn't care if she lived or died.

She remembers what it felt like to be a tool of the state. Someone interchangeable, given harsh orders from people who hadn't cared at all about her. The callous wastefulness... it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. But that's all in the past. She got out in time.

Now, if she met someone from her past, they would be her enemy. They wouldn't try to blackmail her like CAM is doing. They would kill her, but they would make sure to kill John first. Because the worst betrayal, to them, is having the gall to think that a peaceful escape is possible for one of her kind.

She closes her eyes and sees John in his wedding suit, blood and brains splattered across the floor of the church. She's out of bed in an instant, running for the loo, but she doesn't quite reach the toilet before she vomits all over the floor. Later that morning when John makes her eggs for breakfast she can't eat a bite.

Despite the bad start, Mary's wedding day is truly the most beautiful and blissful days of her life, even with her fear that someone might barge in and shoot them all. The weather is lovely, and all of the planning works out perfectly. What she doesn't expect is how pale Sherlock is, and how close he comes to fainting away during the wedding.

"Don't lock your knees." She whispers to him later as he stands ramrod straight in the reception line. He looks around nervously, eyes darting back to John. They always return to John.

She hadn't been there when they chose the wedding clothes since Sherlock considered visiting his tailor a solemn occasion not to be witnessed by the fairer sex, so she was surprised when she first saw them standing side by side in identical suits. An elderly guest asks which one is the groom, and Janine jokes that perhaps she should have married them both. Mary smiles as she always smiles at Janine's jokes.

They often say that the bride glows at a wedding, but there is no doubt that the groom is the star of this one. John is radiant. Where Sherlock acts stiff and nervous, John seems perfectly at ease. He looks relaxed, and happy. He is indeed the most handsome that Mary has ever seen him. The John Watson that she had first met was a broken man, but in these last few weeks, he's blossomed, and it isn't due to her efforts alone. It was both of them, she and Sherlock together, who had made the happy, confident John who stands here today.

Would he still be smiling if he knew about her? Should she tell him that she knows three ways to kill a man with the wine glass in her hand? Perhaps, if she had confessed to him before the wedding, told him who she was... But now it's too late. How could he see her lies as anything but disloyalty. John is, after all, an exceptionally loyal man.

Sherlock and Mary stand shoulder to shoulder watching him as he strides across the room to greet Major Sholto. She imagines his face darkening as he learns the truth about her, and the wine turns rotten in her mouth. She makes a face.

"I chose this wine, it's bloody awful."

"Yes, but it's definitely him that he talks about?"

John is smiling at his former commander, and Sherlock is jealous. He pouts so adorably that she can't stop herself from teasing him a little. She grabs hold of his arm and squeezes.

"Oh Sherlock, neither of us were the first, you know."

Since Sherlock's return he has been so desperate to regain John's friendship. He has focused on it with laser sights. And one of the problems of focusing, as any sniper knows, is that you are no longer aware of the world around you. She keeps his focus tightly on John so that Sherlock won't see her.

And today that takes no effort at all, because John is perfect. He looks whole and well and happy because both of them are here. They stand united, odd confederates joined in an unspoken alliance to keep the harsh realities of the world at bay for at least one day. To give John Watson this one perfect day, before the world comes crashing in on them again.

Mary can't help but smile though. She has won, because when the party is over and they go their separate ways, John will go with her.

"Stop smiling," Sherlock says.

"It's my wedding day," Mary replies.

After dinner, Sherlock makes an odd and insulting speech which turns into an incredibly tender and touching one. John is moved, but being the repressed former soldier that he is, he doesn't want anyone to know. It is all very sweet. There are times when the world intrudes on their blissful bubble, like when one of the telegrams turns out to be from CAM. A little beam of darkness sent just to ruin her mood. It reads:

 **Mary,**

 **Lots of love, Poppet.**

 **Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes**

 **from CAM**

 **Wish your family could have seen this.**

Her family.

What an awful thing to mention on her wedding day. CAM deserves a slow knifing for that message. Shame she doesn't have time to assassinate him until after the honeymoon. She realizes that she's frowning when John bends over to comfort her. She brushes the thought away and smiles.

Sherlock's odd speech is all about John, so Mary is surprised when he finally mentions her.

"Today you sit between the woman you have made your wife, and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that."

John leans over to her and whispers, "If I try and hug him stop me."

"Certainly not."

John did rise and hug him, leaving the room in tears, and giving Mary time to hide her own emotions. " _We will never let him down._ "

Never?

It wasn't a word that Mary was used to using.

Lifetime?

A lifetime could be as long as decades, or as short as the next breath if one was in the line of fire. But if she took Sherlock's vow as her own, if she decided to never let John down. Could she? She loved John, yes, but would they really have a lifetime to prove it? Magnussen had found her. How many others would? How many times would she have to kill to keep John safe?

Sherlock's speech is long, too long, oddly long.

"Vatican cameos."

"What did he say? What does that mean?"

"Battle stations. Someone's is going to die."

"What?"

John places his hand on hers and then stands alert for any action. Mary looks around, but no one seems to be in immediate threat. Mary had thought that the reception would be boring, but it isn't. Not with the attempted murder and Sherlock's insane speech as he tries to figure out who the murderer is.

Sherlock's speech is the most bizarre piece of theatre that she has ever seen. It ends with Sherlock and John running off without her to solve a murder. Well that isn't going to happen.

Mary finds them lost on the hotel stairs, and she helps them save the Major. John is on fire! He takes care of the Major's wounds, and still has time to twirl her around the dance floor while Sherlock plays for them. After everything, after all that she has been through, it is hard for Mary to believe that this is really her life. If someone had told her that she would be gliding across the floor in a cloud of joy, in a beautiful wedding dress, held in the arms of a good man, a man who she loved, she would have laughed. But it is happening. She stands surrounded by friends. She might actually cry.

Then Sherlock decides to make another speech and she has to stop herself from groaning. Luckily, this one is much shorter. He says, "From now on I will always be there for the three of you."

 _Three?_ Sherlock made a mistake.

But then he explains by saying.

"I think that you should take a pregnancy test."

Pregnant?

Oh God!

 _The sound of music fades away and Mary hears the thump of a body landing on the floor. It is her mother. Gold strands glimpsed through a doorway. Her father walking forward, gun in hand. The colors of the scene fade until they are the black and white of a classic film. A whisp of smoke rises from the muzzle._ No wonder the movie had bothered her. It might have been made of her mother's life.

She plasters a smile on her face and laughs at Sherlock's joke. John is overjoyed. They are having a baby.

A baby!

She covers as best she can, pulling John away to dance so she won't have to talk anymore. Her thoughts are racing, and she's finding it oh so hard to smile.

Mr and Mrs Watson. She had only ever imagined them as a couple. When there are three of them, then they will definitely be a family.

She remembers her father, holding her in his arms and petting her hair to calm her. He said, _"One thing about family, Poppet, is that you can never leave it. No matter where you are or what you do, you can't get away from it. They're a part of you, and you're part of them. You and your children will always be part of the family, until you die."_


	11. Honeymoon

They are in a moderate-sized airport when she makes the switch. Confessing a whim to see a different Island than the one where they had booked reservations, Mary switches the tickets at the last minute and they board a different plane. She looks on in satisfaction as the man in the Hawaiian shirt with the far-too-neat haircut stares through the glass at them as they taxi toward the runway.

She uses John's sense of adventure to lead them on a winding, impossible to trace course that ends in a quaint little hotel, not too far from the beach, where they still keep paper records instead of the ubiquitously traceable computer ones. She picks a time when the desk is busy to check in, switching keys with another couple so that even if someone recognizes John's messy signature they won't be where the register says they are.

It's only when the door is closed behind them that she sighs with relief, finally free. Too much was known about her in London. Her cover was so close to being blown. Here they are just faceless tourists in a crowded island town.

The room is small. Just a bed and a couple of chairs. She sits on the edge of the bed and slouches as she hasn't let herself do in months. "You okay, honey?" John asks putting his hands on her shoulders and giving her a back rub.

She leans into him with a low moan. "I am now," she says enjoying the feel of his hands. Wishing it was just her skin beneath his fingers without the barrier of her blouse.

"You've had so much tension in your shoulders these last few days. You need to relax."

"Well that's certainly helping," Mary says, eyes closing as she melts up against him. John reaches over and opens her top button, then he pulls the shirt over her head. She smiles. She likes it when John reads her mind like this. He takes off her bra with a practiced ease, and then gently kisses her neck before pulling her close to him. Her bare back touching his bare chest. When did he take off his shirt?

"Mary?" he asks in a low voice.

"Um hummm," she purrs back at him.

"I know you like to see the sights, But would you mind at all if we just stayed here for a bit."

"Here? You mean in this town?"

"I mean in this bed."

She smiles wider as he lowers her down onto the sheets. "Why Mr. Watson. I think that is an excellent idea."

"I do too, Mrs Watson."

Their lovemaking this time is slow and carefree. John worships her body, and she lets him, lazily spreading herself before him as he tenderly kisses her skin, methodically making his way around her body until she feels completely relaxed. This is pleasure, decadent and selfish. This is bliss. John is hers, without question or opposition. John loves her, and is making love to her, and it is wonderful. She could get used to being Mrs John Watson. No, she doesn't mind it at all.

She wakes suddenly after dark to find the other side of the bed empty. She freezes, glancing at the side table. She had forgotten to put out her book with her knife in it, and so she has no weapon at hand. She raises her head cautiously to look around the room and find what has woken her. Then she hears John's chuckle. He is seated in a chair. The light of his phone illuminating a bright smile on his face.

"John, what are you doing?"

John jumps guiltily, hiding his smile. "Just reading my blog."

"Your blog?" Mary asks, "You're on the internet? But I didn't think they had service here?"

"Apparently we are close enough to the Hilton to get their guest wifi," he says.

Mary rolls over to pick up her purse, and pulls out her phone. She types in the address for John's blog and begins to read it.

John has posted an entry about the wedding. A strangely enthusiastically one, but no...It seems that it was Sherlock who posted the entry in in parody of John. How did he get his password?

Her eyes scan across the words that show that Sherlock is feeling sulky and depressed that they are away on their "Sex Holiday" as he calls it. "He's upset he didn't get pictures of the attempted homicide!" She says with a smile, "He says maybe at the next wedding."

John types furiously, and after a moment she reads.

 _'STOP POSTING ON MY BLOG! AND THERE WON'T BE ANOTHER WEDDING!_ _ **John Watson**_ _'_

Mary sucks in a breath. John, her John, really means that. He doesn't plan to ever love another. Mary grins surprised to find a tear on her cheek.

Mary doesn't like to think very far into the future. She doesn't think of growing old, because she never expects to. Certainly a bullet will find her long before then. Long term relationships never work. She only need remember her parents to know that. Forgiveness is a myth. Happily ever after is for other people, if it ever happens at all. But John loves her. He honestly doesn't think that they will ever part. She wipes the tears away and reads the post again only to find that Sherlock has replied to it.

 _'Does your wife know you're on the Internet when you're supposed to be enjoying your Sex Holiday with her?_ _ **Sherlock Holmes**_ _'_

 _'Yes. Yes, she does._ _ **Mary Morstan**_ _'_ she types back before putting away her phone and going over to give John a big kiss. He holds her in his arms as she rests her head on his shoulder closing her eyes.

"Sherlock says that you should avoid seafood."

Her eyes fly open. "What?" She turns her head to find that John is still reading his phone. She peers at the screen. Sherlock has typed it onto the comments where anyone can see it.

The baby. She hasn't decided what to do about it yet. She had planned to make the decision later, but if everyone knows….if Magnussen knows. If he sends people after her while she is incapacitated, fat, sedentary, and unable to run away..."

"John. Shut him up will you. Please, don't let him keep typing about the baby."

"What's wrong? Are you okay, Mary?"

"PLEASE John. Stop him!"

"Okay, okay," John says quickly composing a text.

Mary runs over and fishes her phone out of her purse typing a comment before Sherlock can post again,

 _'SHERLOCK! SHUT UP NOW!_ _ **Mary Morstan**_ _'_

Mary is breathing heavily now. Her eyes glance around the room checking the exits, as she does when she feels under threat. She looks at the screen to see a new post.

 _'I've just had a text from John. I'll shut up now._ _ **Sherlock Holmes**_ _'_

Mary stares at the screen, watching to see if anyone responds to his post, when the phone is pulled from her hand. She looks up to see John putting it down on the side table. He sits beside her and puts an arm around her shoulder pulling her against him.

"Mary, what's wrong?"

"It's just… It's OUR baby. We are the ones who should be announcing it, not him."

John pulls her close and gently touches her abdomen. "Would it really be so bad if everyone knew that you were going to have our child? It's not like the child will be born out of wedlock, and even if it is, in this day and age who cares about such things. I want to tell people. I want everyone in the world to know how happy you've made me, because you have. Mary, you have made me the happiest man on the Earth, and I can't wait to start a family with you."

Tears roll from her eyes again. John picks one up with his finger. "Are you alright, Mrs Watson?"

She smiles a huge, ugly, tear covered smile so big that she thinks her mouth might break. "Yes, I am, Husband." He kisses her then making her forget all of her worries.

The next morning, she makes plans to leave. Phone and internet records can be traced. While John is in the bathroom, she pulls out her phone to see if anyone else has commented about the pregnancy.

There is some speculation, but nothing solid, and Sherlock has started insulting the people posting on the blog again. She smiles reading…

 _'But haven't you got better things to be doing? You're spending all your time on the Internet._ _ **Sherlock Holmes**_ _'_

 _'Is this why most of you are single?_ _ **Sherlock Holmes**_ _'_

As she's watching, a post pops up.

 _'Sherlock. You're being rude again._ _ **John Watson**_ _'_

Anger rises up in her and her face turns red. Last night, John had told her that she and their children would be all that he would ever need to have a happy life. But even here on their honeymoon he can't spend a day without talking to Sherlock! Suddenly all of the anger, all of the jealousy that she had repressed in London spills out of her. She types.

 _'John. You are reading your blog again._ _ **Mary Morstan**_ _'_

Her mouth curls down at the last two words. It seems a personal affront that the computer has signed her maiden name instead of her married one. She is Mary Watson, and John is hers now, and hers alone.

The bathroom door opens, and John steps out a bit sheepishly without his phone. Mary rushes past him and picks up his phone from the counter. She pulls out the battery, throwing it into the tub before fishing out the sim card with her fingernails and crushing it underfoot.

"Mary!" he cries, "What's got into you?"

She turns then and pushes John back onto the bed, forcing him down and jumping on top of him.

"Mary?" he asks confused.

"You are MY husband, John Watson, not the husband of that big baby back in London. I am your bride, and you will remember that on OUR honeymoon."

"But Mary, I was just...Whahhh!" he cries as Mary leans forward and bites him at the place where his shoulder and neck meet. Mary was never one for marking before, but something has struck her down deep and she needs everyone to know that he's hers. It doesn't matter that Sherlock is hundreds of miles away. It feels as if he is in the next room trying to lure away her husband, and she can't take it. She won't take it anymore. She opens John's belt and pulls down his pants taking him quickly into her mouth as he cries out...

"JESUS!"

She drops all pretense of being mild-mannered Mary. A small part of her mind panics telling her that now she has broken cover, he will recoil from her and leave her for good, and she thinks it's happening when he pulls her off of him holding her firmly by the arms as he hauls her to her feet.

He stands, glaring down at her darkly, with a smirk on his face which always means danger. She considers flight, only then realizing the strength of his hold on her. She frowns at him determined to win at all costs. His grin widens to show his teeth, and then he mashes his face against hers, tongue probing as he reaches up to rip the shoulder of her sensible dress. He pulls the remains down her body and she kicks it off along with her shoes which fly across the room as he grabs her arms twisting them up against her back.

Fear begins to kick in as her body senses threat, and she lifts her knees to press against his chest levering them farther apart. His trousers drop to his ankles and he falls back on the bed releasing her arms. She leans over him, hands on either side of his head, both of them panting hard. Then he reaches up and unhooks her bra. She takes out one arm and then the other, and then he rises up and takes a nipple in his mouth and bites it. She slaps him, and he falls back onto the bed, her fingernails dig into his shirt, and she pulls, ripping some of the buttons. He rises, flipping her over so that she is under him, torn shirt billowing as his eyes rove over her naked breasts.

"Take off your clothes, now!" she orders, and John's smile grows truly dangerous.

"Oh God ,Yes!" he says opening the last of the shirt buttons before flinging it and the rest of his clothes away as fast as he can while she removes the rest of hers. He sits back down on the bed and she climbs on top, sheathing him in her warmth and wrapping her legs tightly around him as her fingernails cut into his back. He moans loudly and then grabs her buttocks climbing to his feet and carrying her across the room to slam her back up against the wall forcing himself deeper inside and causing both of their heads to fall back as he cries out again.

Their lovemaking is quick and hard. She cries out his name "John! John! Harder!" and he tries, getting frustrated when he can't get the angle right. He carries her back to the bed dropping her down on her back as he repositions himself, bracing one hand against the headboard and pulling one thigh across his chest as he pounds into her not caring, for once, what the people in the next room might think as the bed crashes against the wall repeatedly.

Mary feels freer than she has ever felt. She thought John would reject her if she let out this side of herself, but he has surprised her. She didn't realize that he was holding back as well. She's finally broken past that facade of reserve that John holds over his heart and gone to some place deeper. The place where John doesn't hold back. The place where John can no longer lie. He is a wild thing, and she laughs as she feels his climax approaching.

"Oh, Oh God!" John cries unable to hold himself back. He stills with one hand on the headboard, his eyes tightly shut. He shudders above her. She can feel him pooling into her now, and her smile widens only to leave her face a moment later when she hears him cry out...

"Oh God! Oh God Sherlock!Yes!"

Checking out is a solemn affair. John tries to make excuses, but she tells him to stop. She's made up her mind now. John convinced her to have the baby. Mr and Mrs Watson will have their happy family. It doesn't matter that John secretly lusts after his best friend. He's married to her, now. Once the baby is born, things will fall into place. She's seen it hundreds of times. The responsibilities of parenting tames a man. And if Sherlock ever does get up the courage to ask him to come back, she knows what to say. "You're a father now. It wouldn't be right for you to put yourself in danger. Think of the child!" And good, old, responsible John Watson would. He would suppress his personal desires and do what society expected of him. That's what he had always done, after all.

Some small thought in the back of her mind tells her that if she wasn't there, Sherlock and John might have found happiness together, but she quashes it. Who cares what the world might be like if she were gone. She agrees with Moriarty on that score. Once she is dead, let the world burn.

Now, she has her prize. She won him fairly. Before long they will have a child together, and Magnussen will be dead. She pulls out her phone to buy the tickets to their next destination, a little place that she knows where a black market dealer can sell her some bullets and perhaps a new gun with a silencer. She climbs into the taxi, John following sheepishly behind, and away they go.


	12. Empty Hands

No one is waiting for them at the airport on their return. Hardly surprising as neither of them are social butterflies. Even so, she half expects to see Sherlock there. She looks around for a black coat, then she looks at John, but he carries their bags toward the taxi stand without a word. After _'the incident_ ', John hasn't mentioned Sherlock's name once.

They climb into the taxi and go to their new flat, the one on the ground floor with an extra bedroom for the baby. Two days later, they go back to work. They are on different shifts, so she drives and John takes the train. One evening, she casually points out that he's gained a few pounds. The next day he comes home with a bicycle that he parks on the back patio.

Their sex is lackluster. The wild John from that one night is gone. He's tender and cautious with her. When she calls him on it, he says that he doesn't want to hurt the baby. John is as kind, as he always has been, but now that she's seen his true self, his actions seem restrained. Perhaps it is embarrassment or shame that makes him want to hide that side of himself from her, but she doesn't mind that anymore. They were both a little off that day, and anyone can make a mistake.

John is a bit… obsessive. And he's been obsessed with Sherlock Holmes for years. He said it himself on that blog that she has taken it upon herself to read. Sherlock Holmes is _'like a drug._ ' John looks up to him. He respects him. He was understandably upset that he died the way he did, and getting him back... well, that was an shock. But everything is fine now. John buys a new phone, and doesn't call to give Sherlock his number. She knows because she checks his messages every night when he's in the bathroom.

John's PTSD is back with a vengeance. He tosses in his sleep almost every night. She holds his wrist to comfort him. At least that is what she tells herself. She won't admit that she is even jealous of his dreams.

The morning Kate arrives on their doorstep distressed about her son Isaac, is the first time in weeks that John seems to be acting like himself. Actually, he seems agitated and nervous, but when he puts that tire iron down his jeans, she can't help but smile. He does look _'A little bit sexy'_ when he plans to be violent.

She waits for him in the car thinking about what they'll do once they get home. They'll drop off Isaac first, then she'll ask him about what he has in his trousers. Knowing John, he'll make some off color joke about the iron. Then she'll unzip his jeans and pull it out. Perhaps then she'll see that wild John again. The one who took her breath away. The one that might be a true match for her. She doesn't want to give herself hope, but she has been fantasizing about him, a John every bit as forceful as the men she used to know. Someone exciting who'd hold his own with her in bed, and then get up later to care for the baby. John could be that man if only she could get him to open up a bit.

Isaac comes out first, a bit disoriented, talking about John having a fight. She jumps when the door flies off of it's hinges, and reaches for the glove compartment where she had stashed John's gun only to stop in shock when she sees who John is arguing with.

Sherlock Holmes.

Of course he would find a way to butt into their lives again. Mary starts the car and races over to where they are.

"In, both of you, quickly!" she yells suddenly angry.

They climb in, and then some man from the drug den gets in front of the car and insists that she take him with them. She is just considering running him over when John tells her to give him a ride. The druggy freeloader calls Sherlock 'Shezza'. Honestly, Shezza? What kind of silly name is that? She is starting to calm down when John insists that they go to Barts Hospital to give Sherlock a drug test.

Mary drives them to the hospital. She tries to keep her cool, but she is secretly fuming. Sherlock Holmes is a grown man. If he wants to get stoned off his head and lie all day in a drug den, that's none of their business, but John, John has to be his mother hen. Why does he treat Sherlock this way? Why does he feel that it is his responsibility to feed him and scold him, and bandage up his cuts? It's bizarre!

John storms into the hospital and she follows. Even the weird druggy freeloader comes along with them to the lab. Why not? Why the hell not! This makes no sense anyway.

John stands in the corner glaring while Molly does a drugs test on Sherlock. Mary falls back into cover as a nurse and bandages up Freeloader's arm only to turn in shock at the sound of Molly slapping Sherlock. She slaps him again and says, "How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts that you were born with? And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry."

"Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

John walks over to him, and lowers his voice saying, "If you were anywhere near this thing again, you could have called, you could have talked to me."

"Oh, please do relax. This is all for a case."

 _'Ha!'_ Mary thinks. ' _A case? The only case here is the case of the whiny baby Sherlock who was missing his full-time baby sitter.'_

"What kind of case would need you doing this?" John asks.

"I might as well ask you why you started cycling to work."

 _'Cycling? How did he know? Oh, the creases on his shirt. John folds his shirts and changes when he gets to work, but he didn't need to go into work today. Does that mean he folds all of his shirts?'_

Mary thinks back to when she last did the laundry. She hung the shirts in the closet next to her clothes, but John must have taken them down and packed them again. Why? _'Oh God. John is planning to leave me!'_

"Ow!" Druggy Freeloader says as she pulls the bandage a bit too tight.

"Oh, sorry, you moved," she says trying to cover, "but it is just a sprain."

"Somebody hit me," he replies looking across at John, "Just some guy."

John shifts nervously on his feet and says, "It was probably just an addict in need of a fix."

Sherlock says, "Yes, I think, in a way, it was."

He's clever, John is. Mary finds her mouth turning up in a smile. Who would have expected that a man who is unable to lie might be able to hide his thoughts from her like this. She wants to congratulate him and hit him at the same time. She is on the verge of laughing hysterically. She needs to leave quickly before she does something that she can't talk her way out of. She walks over to John as Sherlock runs off to make a call. Why don't you take Sherlock home while I take Isaac back to his mother.

John nods, his eyes fixed on the door that Sherlock has just passed through. She leads Isaac out to the car, sighing as the freeloader, Bill, jumps in the back. She contemplates killing him for a moment, and then she smiles and asks him about Shezza.

"He's been comin' round off and on for a long while now," Bill says. "The last couple weeks, he's been by almost every day. He started out heavy, but lately he's been tapering off. He has me wake him in the morning. Says that he has someone he has to meet. Won't say who, just that it's important that he meet _her_. Happens sometimes. Someone has a wife or girlfriend that they don't want to know about their binges. He didn't seem the type, but there it is."

Mary drops him off, and then takes Isaac home to his mother who sobs and yells out thank yous, her gratitude overflowing. Once they are out of the door, Mary locks it, and walks into the kitchen. They'd just redecorated it adding a bright yellow, floral wallpaper. A crystal bowl full of oranges sits on the table. It was a wedding gift from Stella and Ted. She picks it up admiring the way their names are etched into the side, Mary and John.

She smiles, remembering when they first saw it on the night before they left for their honeymoon. She'd insisted they put the gifts away properly before leaving, and so they had sat on the living room floor smiling and laughing as they read each card and opened each box. John had talked about the future, about their children and their life together. He had made her believe in forever, and then he had gone into the bedroom and folded his clothes because he didn't plan to stay.

There was a loud crash. Mary looked down at the shattered pieces of the wedding bowl. Oranges scattered, bouncing across the floor and rolling under the table. She looked at her empty hands.

Empty.

She didn't understand.

Why?

Why could she never hang on to the good things?


	13. Killing Magnussen

Her name is Alice Monahans. She cleans rooms on the floor below Magnussen's office. Mary chooses her, not just for the location of her job, which is important, but also because of her appearance. Her hair is dark brown, tied in a tight bun at her neck. She wears a long brown coat which sways back and forth as she shuffles, her eyes perpetually downcast. The swish of her coat and her small, distinctive steps are so recognizable that anyone who knows her would swear that she is the one walking down the hallway when they replay this scene later on the monitor.

Alice is steady and predictable. Mary watched her methodical habits as she was cleaning toilets at a nearby hotel. A job she does in the afternoons before coming here to work the evening shift. If they respect the _do not disturb_ sign placed on the door, then Alice should sleep till morning due to a generous dose of sedative in her coffee.

Wearing a brown wig and pointing her face at the floor, Mary shuffles down the hall. The bag, the coat, the shoes, the white collared shirt were easy enough to find at the cheaper priced clothing stores. She'd scoped the room out by flirting with the man who filled the drinks machine, so she knows exactly where Alice's locker is. Mary hides her face behind the locker door when a man in a blue jumpsuit walks into the room.

"Oh hello, Alice. You're early," he says smiling at her as he takes some gloves from a drawer.

She nods, and waits for him to leave the room. Once she is alone, she walks over to the closet and pulls out a cleaning cart. She stashes her equipment in the waste bin and covers it with her coat before pushing the cart out of the room and down the hall to the freight elevators.

The floor below Magnussen's houses a number of offices, most of which close at five. She pushes the cart down the hallway stopping at the corner and bending over as she pushes the button which switches the feed on the surveillance cameras. She'd recorded the camera feed three days ago. It shows Alice moving from room to room, dumping the waste paper and recyclables as she cleans each office. Now she plays it back. A tiny drive sending the signal back to the security office. She looks at her watch and computes how long she has till the feed shows Alice standing here again.

She walks into the corner office and closes the door behind her. Then she pulls off the ugly shirt and trousers revealing a black catsuit. She shoves the clothes into the bin and puts on a cap. Then she pulls out her gun and straps it to her leg before climbing on the desk, opening a panel in the ceiling, and pulling herself up. She goes through the crawlspace until she reaches a service room whose door is always kept locked. She lowers herself and drops down wincing a bit as she feels a pang in her gut. She presses against her abdomen. A few more weeks and she won't be able to do the climbing anymore.

There is a metal ladder on the edge of the room that goes up to the floor above. She climbs it, coming out in a bare white room next to the service elevator. She walks across to the white doors on the other side of the room and peeks through the crack.

Janine is sitting at a sleek black desk a few feet away. There is no way to enter without being seen, so Mary squats down and waits. A man, obviously security, leans over Janine's desk. She rises to her feet and frowns. He knocks a pen off of her desk and she bends over to pick it up. He grabs her buttocks, and she rises pulling away from him and glaring. He laughs and spits out a crude comment before walking away. Janine shoves the pen in a drawer, and sits back down again.

She hears Magnussen's syrupy voice call out then. Mary tries to catch a glimpse of him. She hears two sets of footsteps climbing stairs, then she looks at her watch. After several minutes, Janine finally rises from her desk, but before Mary can fully open the door, there is a beep and Janine returns. She touches a key and talks to someone on the intercom. While she is distracted, Mary slowly opens the door and enters the room. She crouches behind a divider listening as Janine makes a surprised noise. Mary stills, thinking at first that she has been spotted, but she realizes that it is something else by the tone of Janine's voice. She glances at the window, a wall of glass looking out on the city, and sees Janine's reflection walking toward the elevator. That's when Mary strikes, picking up a stainless steel martini mixer and bashing her on the back of the head. She falls to the floor with a satisfying thud. _'That's what she gets for never returning my favorite bracelet.'_

The sound has attracted the guard who comes clomping down the stairs to see what is happening. She shoots, rushing past him and up the stairs before the body has a chance to hit the ground. Magnussen is alone. She walks up to him and pulls out her gun. He raises his hands glancing back at the door for help that will never come.

"CAM?" she says aiming at his head.

"Who are you? I know I have seen your face somewhere... recently... on a recording. Ah! Mrs Watson."

"Tell me, how did you find out about me?"

"I acquire information. That is what I do."

"But who told you?"

"If your husband were to find out that you..."

"I can make this hurt. I'm a nurse, I know how to cause pain. Tell me what you have on me."

"It's in the drawer."

"Get it."

Magnussen goes to his desk and pulls open a drawer. His right hand slides across the bottom of the desk.

"If you push that button, I'll kill you now."

Magnussen's right hand stops moving. His left hand carefully reaches into the drawer and pulls out a thumb drive. He walks over, and holds it out to her.

"On the floor. Slide it over."

Magnussen kneels on the ground, places the silver drive on the floor, and pushes it. Mary squats down, gun firmly pointed at him as she snatches up the drive. She glimpses the letters A.G.R.A. before she places it in her pocket.

Magnussen begs. "Coming here. What would your husband think? He...your lovely husband. He's honorable. What would he say to you now?"

Mary cocks her gun. How dare he threaten her at her own wedding and then try to use John save himself. Oh, she will enjoy this.

"No, no, no!" He blubbers covering his head with his arms "You're doing this to protect him from the truth? What is this obsession with honesty?"

"Additionally if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume, Lady Smallwood."

Mary freezes. _'Sherlock?'_ It can't be. She had talked to him earlier that day. He had asked if he could take John out for a case, and she said 'Yes, and give him dinner too' which had led to a humorous discussion of how much weight John had gained since the wedding. There was no way that his case could be….

Sherlock with ratty hair wearing old clothes smiling at his phone as he cried, "Excellent news, the best. There's every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers."

 _'Newspapers? Magnussen's Newspapers? SHIT!'_

"Sorry, Who?" Magnussen said. "That's not Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock hadn't seen her face yet. He thought she was someone else, Lady Smallwood. If she could leave without him seeing her face...but Magnussen would tell...was about to tell him who she was. This was unfortunate. If she killed him now, she wouldn't find out who gave him the information, and she needed to know. She had to know who the other enemy was. Sherlock! Why was he here anyway? He was supposed to be with John. _'John?'_

Mary turned toward Sherlock and pointed her gun at him. Fear for John totally banishing the joy she should feel at his surprise. If John was found near Magnussen's dead body, he'd be jailed. How dare Sherlock bring him here! Unless….

"Is John with you?" she said, her voice a bit shaky.

Sherlock was worse. His voice shuddered as he stammered out a reply, "He's um..."

"Is John here?"

"He's downstairs."

Mary nodded. _'Right, brilliant. So I can't kill Magnussen.'_

Magnussen took that moment to annoy her by saying… "So, what do you do now? Kill us both?" Magnussen was a snake, but he would never spill a secret that he could sell later. He wasn't a problem now, but Sherlock... Sherlock was annoyingly honest. He would tell John what she was.

"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help." Sherlock said as he took a step forward.

She sighed. "Oh Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."

"No, Mrs Watson, you won't." He took a step. She raised the gun and aimed at his head.

 _Mrs Watson._

He had called her Mrs Watson, not Mary. Both he and Magnussen knew her one weakness. The reason why she was here in the first place. John, who might even now be on the stairs. She had no time to wait. She had to leave, and Sherlock...he had to die.

The tombstone. John's eyes. The way he used to talk, so hesitant. What a transformation he had made since Sherlock's return. He was a completely different man now. Before, he seemed only half alive. What would he be like when he saw Sherlock's dead body? He would fall to the ground, certainly. Would he even bother to get up again?

But Sherlock would tell! John would know what she was, and he wouldn't love her anymore! Would he stay even a day, even an hour once he found out? His clothes were already packed. He was just waiting for an excuse to leave her. Because of Sherlock.

All those days and nights she had thrown them together, to keep them distracted. And then John had called out his name. If Sherlock was dead, John would be lost again to grief. If he was alive, Sherlock would take him from her. Then again, if he was dying….

John is a doctor, he will try his best to save him...and when he finds out that it is too late, she will be there to help him through it. He will grieve, but they've been through that before, and once the baby is born…

Mary aims and shoots. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I truly am."

"Mary?" he says tottering back and forth before falling dramatically to the ground.

She points the gun at Magnussen, wondering if she should just kill him anyway, but she hits him instead knocking him unconscious before going to the desk and pushing the button on the phone that calls for emergency assistance. He'd caused more than one heart attack to occur in his office before.

Mary walked out of the door and hid around a blind corner as John strode up the stairs. She let him pass, and then she rushed down and back the way that she had come. She was quick, but not quick enough to escape the sound of John calling out…"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

She let the door slam shut behind her.


	14. Paper dolls

Home again, Mary sits at the kitchen table and folds a sheet of paper back and forth, back and forth like a fan. She takes out her kitchen sheers and cuts the paper, the sharp edge of the scissors ripping into the white sheet as she forms the shape of a person. The waste pieces fall onto the surface of the table like confetti which she sweeps up with her hand and throws away.

She stares at the human shape.

One alone.

That's what the best undercover agents are like. They alone know who they really are. Not even the person who hires them knows their identity. That was what Mary thought that she was. Moriarty knew, but he's dead.

She unfolds another revealing two dolls joined hand in hand.

Magnussen sent her those letters meaning there were two who knew, Mary and CAM.

She unfolds another one.

But the USB stick with the word A.G.R.A. on it changes things. Someone else gave that stick to Magnussen. Someone sold him the information. Who? Not Moriarty.

She unfolds another doll.

Now Sherlock knows. Sherlock who is in hospital hopefully dying, but if he doesn't die then he will tell….

Mary unfolds another doll and just stares at it. Then she folds two back under again.

'No, That won't happen. Sherlock is dead. There's no way that he could have survived.' She pulls out her phone and replays the message that John sent her.

" _Mary...Sherlock has been shot. He's in critical condition. I'm at the hospital now. It doesn't look good. I think he might...Mary, I need you. Come as soon as you can…."_

John had asked her to come, so that's what she'll do. A good wife stands beside her husband in adversity. Sherlock won't survive. She'll make sure of that. Then as for the others….

She crumples the dolls in her hand throwing them all into the waste bin. Then she takes her keys in hand and rushes out to meet John at the hospital.

.

She finds John by the stairs.

"Mary."

"Hey!"

"He's only bloody woken up. He's pulled through!"

"Really? Seriously?" She says raising her eyelids in an attempt to look happy instead of shocked.

"You, Mrs Watson, are in big trouble."

 _Oh God!_ "Really, why?"

"His first word when he woke up...Mary." John furrows his brow, puzzled. Mary feels the floor dropping beneath her feet. She laughs nervously and hugs him.

John is radiating joy. He leads her to the darkened room where Sherlock is recovering. She can tell that he's been camped there all night. His chair is pulled up close by the bedside. She would bet money that he has been holding Sherlock's hand.

She frowns.

"What?" John whispers.

"Oh, just ... he's not awake."

"No. He's still recovering from the drugs that they gave him during surgery, but he's just about to wake up. I saw his eyes flutter a few moments ago."

"Did he say anything?"

"Other than your name? No." John laughs. "Who knows, maybe he has a crush on you."

Mary laughs too covering her mouth with her hand to lessen the noise. She glances over at Sherlock. His eyes are fluttering as if he is about to wake. John hasn't noticed yet.

"Oh John, I didn't get a chance to get anything before I came over. Do you think that you could grab me a cup of coffee? I'll stay with Sherlock."

John glances over at Sherlock, obviously loathe to leave him. "Alright," he says. "I'll be right back."

"Don't worry, John. I'll be right here with him."

John hesitates a second, and then leaves.

When he is gone, Mary rushes over to Sherlock's bed and stares into his face. Someone has turned on a fan. The light from the window shines through the blades casting shadows that cut across his face. Sherlock is waking up. Perhaps the sound of John's voice woke him. It doesn't matter. What matters now is that the chain doesn't get any longer.

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and his eyes open half way.

"You don't tell him," Mary says towering over him. "You don't tell John."

His eyes flutter again so she calls his name in that singsong way that she knows will always get his attention, "Sherlock! You don't tell John!"

She leans forward looking straight into his eyes as she talks to him.

"Look at me, and tell me you're not going to tell him."

She stares into his eyes all green in the dim light, and sees his distress. He's afraid, and she can't risk it.

Being a nurse has taught her many things. She knows, for example, that as little as twenty to fifty milliliters of air in the line is enough to cause a fatal air embolism. She reaches out for the intravenous drip.

The door pushes open, and John enters then with two cups of coffee.

"Hey, Mary. What are you doing?"

"Just straightening his line. It looked a bit tangled."

"Oh, did he wake up while I was gone?"

"No, no. He's just been sleeping."

"Well, It looked for a second as if he might." John hands her a cup.

"So, John, are you coming to work now that he is stable?"

"No, of course not. I can't leave Sherlock now. Call them for me, will you?"

"Okay. I...I think I'll go do that now. Call me later and tell me how he's doing, okay? So glad he's doing well." Mary heads for the door.

"But you just got here," John says putting down his cup and grabbing her arm.

She freezes. Her face growing pale. _Perhaps he knows. Perhaps he's figured it out._ But John just pulls her close and kisses her. She smiles at him and then leaves the room.

The smile falls from her face as soon as she turns away. She can't kill Sherlock, not with John at his side. She closes her eyes. When did everything become so complicated?

When Sherlock wakes, he's sure to tell John, and his brother, and his friends. The chain of paper dolls will grow and grow. But not yet. Now there are only three besides herself who know. Someone told Magnussen. She has to find out who, before Sherlock wakes enough to talk to John.


	15. The Chair

"Sherlock did what?" Mary cries clutching the phone even tighter in her hand.

"He's left the hospital," John says. "Through the window apparently."

"But… that's not possible. He's been shot. He's not going to be climbing out of any windows."

"Apparently, he has."

Mary can feel the panic rising in her, but unlike most people, her response to panic is to become still. She lowers her voice. "So... where would he go?"

"Oh, Christ knows! Try finding Sherlock in London."

Mary frowns, her face becoming cold. "Well, call me as soon as you hear anything. Anything at all."

"I will. Love you." John says, but Mary has already disconnected the call.

" _You don't tell him,"_ she had said to Sherlock, and apparently he hadn't. But fleeing the hospital while critically injured was definitely an attempt to get beyond her reach, and that meant that he was _planning_ to tell John. That was the only reason that Sherlock had for risking his own life by leaving the hospital.

But he had made one fatal mistake. He had left without telling John or his friends that she was the one who shot him. That meant that everyone still thought of her as the concerned wife of Sherlock's best friend. Best use that advantage as soon as possible to get to Sherlock before he gets to John.

Mary dials Lestrade's number. He answers a bit out of breath, as if he is on the move, "Hello."

"Hi Greg, It's Mary."

"Oh Mary, John is here with me. Do you want to speak to him?"

"No, no. I was just calling to ask if you knew of a place where Sherlock might go to hide."

Mary goes to the closet and squats down. She balances the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she pulls open a hidden panel, retrieving her gun.

"Where he might _hide_? Do you think that's what he's doing, hiding?"

"Don't you? If we can only find him, then we can help. And he needs our help."

Mary checks the clip of the gun making sure that the bullets are properly loaded, then she puts it in the pocket of her grey coat.

"He has three known bolt-holes: Parliament Hill, Camden Lock, and Dagmar Court," Lestrade tells her. She calculates in her head which she can get to first and heads toward the tube station. "Give the phone to John now, will you?" she says, and soon she hears his concerned voice through the phone.

"Do you want me to come and get you so that we can search together?"

"NO!" she says. The last thing she needs is for John to find him first. "I mean. We'll cover more ground this way. You and Lestrade ask around and find more places to search. I'll check out the ones you gave me."

"Are you sure you want to help? You won't get tired... with the baby and all?"

Mary stops for a moment and smiles because she knows that will change the timber of her voice. "Of course not. I want to help. This is Sherlock whose missing after all." The line goes strangely silent. "John...John...are you still there?"

"I'm here, It's just... It's just not the way it usually goes."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... Mary, I love you."

"I love you too, John. Now, find out where he's hiding and call me as soon as you can, okay? I mean it. The moment you see him, I expect for you to have the phone in your hand, okay? Promise?"

"Of course, Mary. Talk to you soon. Bye."

"Good bye."

Mary continues walking down the street. She gives up on the tube and flags down a cab. Heaven forbid John insist to come with her. She must see Sherlock alone so that she can make absolutely sure that he doesn't tell John, that he never tells John anything again.

Each lead seems more unlikely than the last, but she is patient and determined. It is well past midnight when she finds herself on the corner of Leinster Terrace and Leinster Gardens.

A beggar accosts her. "Spare any change, Love?"

"No."

"Oh come on, Love, don't be like all the rest."

She turns back and drops a few coins in the bucket only to have the man grab her arm and press a phone into her hand. "Rule one of looking for Sherlock Holmes, he finds you."

She recognizes the man now. It's Bill Wiggins, the one from the crack den. "You're working for Sherlock now?" She says with a grin.

"Keeps me off the streets, innit?"

Mary looks around at the deserted street. "Well, No."

The phone rings then and she answers placing the bud in her ear so that her hands are free. "Where are you?"

"Can't you see me?"

"What am I looking for?"

"The lie, the lie of Leinster gardens, hidden in plain sight."

It is only then, as she walks down the empty street searching for Sherlock, that she finally understands what James Moriarty saw in him. She had thought of Sherlock as a lonely, sad, pathetic man, but under threat he is playful and devious, much like James Moriarty himself. She stops in front of a darkened house and asks, "What am I looking at?"

"Twenty three and twenty four Leinster Garden's, the empty houses. They were demolished years ago to make way for the London Underground. The vents for the old steam trains. Only the very front section of the house remains, it's just a facade. Remind you of anyone, Mary, a facade?"

She looks up to see her face projected on the side of the building. Her image is wearing a wedding veil.

"Sorry I never could resist a touch of drama," he says. Mary walks inside.

It's a small space, only a hallway really. The dim lighting reveals an electrical box and some cables. Water drips repeatedly from a pipe. She sees him sitting at the end of a dark hallway. She could end this now, but he wants to talk, so they'll talk. It will give her time to figure out out his plan. She checks for her gun. _It's there. Good._ She asks, "What do you want, Sherlock?'

"Mary Morstan was stillborn in October, 1972. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where five years ago you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter, her identity."

Mary walks slowly down the hall toward Sherlock. His face is completely in shadow. She says "You were very slow."

She can see the edges of him now. He's in a wheelchair. It will be easy to shoot him, but who else is here? She's seen one person, Bill, and he needed someone's help to get out of that window, not to mention setting up the projector. She needs to get closer.

"How good a shot are you?" he asks, his voice pained. _He's still feeling the last one._

She smiles taking her gun out and cocking it. "How badly do you want to find out?"

"If I die here my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even Scotland Yard could get somewhere with that."

He still isn't moving at all. She tosses up a coin and blows a hole through it. Then Sherlock walks up behind her.

She stares at the end of the hall, and then turns around to face Sherlock. "A dummy? Well, I suppose that was a fairly obvious trick." She kicks the coin toward him, and watches as he bends over to pick it up, pain flashing across his face. _Definitely feeling it then._ _Might not even need to shoot him. A punch to the spleen, and he could be bleeding internally again._ She smiles and walks closer.

"And yet, over a distance of six feet you failed to make a kill shot. Enough to hospitalize me, not enough to kill me. That wasn't a miss, that was surgery." _Does he really think that? Does he really think that he was meant to survive?_ "I'll take the case," Sherlock says.

"What case?"

"Yours." His voice turns sharp. "Why didn't you come to me in the first place?"

"Because John can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him, and I would lose him forever, and Sherlock, I will never let that happen." Sherlock frowns and turns away disbelieving. "Please..." she calls, voice shaking, "understand, there is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening." Her hand closes around the gun in her pocket. She angles it toward him, eyes piercing like daggers.

"Sorry," he says shuffling over to the box and putting his hand on the light switch. "Not that obvious a trick."

 _'What?_ ' she wonders and then she realizes what he must mean. That's no dummy in that chair. The glare of the overhead lights exposes everything, and she can't make herself turn around. She doesn't want to, but in the end she has to be sure.

John is sitting in the chair behind her. He's heard everything that she said. Watched her shoot her gun. Listened as she threatened Sherlock. Her gasp is completely involuntary. John rises from the wheelchair and shakes out his blond hair. The collar snaps as he turns it down. It's like watching a train approaching a broken bridge. She knows what's going to happen, but she can't look away. She has to watch the crash. Their crash. Her life falling off the edge into the abyss.

"Now talk, and sort it out, but do it quickly," Sherlock says. She can hardly process the words. John is looking at her, and the look in his eyes is one that she has never seen before. He walks toward her and stops well out of her reach. He glares at her with disappointment bordering on disgust, as if she's an apple that he's just found a worm in, something rotten.

 _I've lost him._

"Baker Street, now" Sherlock says before striding out of the building. John follows with a heavy gait, his teeth clenching in anger as he passes. She stares, her heart racing, then she follows. There is no escaping this. John knows, and he can never unknow, but there is always a chance for mercy.

 _Mercy. Don't fool yourself._

She climbs into the cab behind Sherlock taking the seat across from both of them. John stares fixedly at her. His glare growing harsher and harsher until she has to turn her face away. They pass the time in silence as the quiet streets go by. John is the first out when they reach Baker street. He storms up the stairs. Sherlock's tread is much slower. He's going pale, but she can't spare the time to think of him.

 _John is angry, but he's forgiven before. He forgave Sherlock. Can he forgive me too?_

Mary's heart is beating very fast. Her body wants to run, but she holds herself still. She's been caught good and proper. There is no way that she can get to one of her stashes without being spotted at this point, and even if she did, where would she go? How could she hide, with a baby on the way, and all of her old contacts thinking her dead?

She shot Sherlock, and now he has her, and he has no good reason to keep her alive. The only possible reason is John, who is looking at her as though she is the most disgusting thing that he has ever seen. She wishes with all her heart that she had never lived to see that face. She would rather have taken Sherlock's bullet herself than to have seen it.

She remembers another scene. Blond hair, a body falling to the floor. Then years later, Her father in a cell, shocked that his own daughter would turn him in. He'd taken away her mother, and yet he didn't understand her anger at losing the one person who she'd loved most in the world. She sees that same anger in John's eyes.

He turns to her and growls, "You, what have I ever done, my whole life to deserve you?"

"...John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You are abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you fall in love with conforms to that pattern?"

John's voice cracks. He waves toward her and says, "But she wasn't supposed to be like that. Why is _she_ like that?"

"Because you chose her."

John cries out, "Why is everything always MY FAULT!"

She can't look at his face anymore. Only days before, she had wished to see a wilder John. Now he kicks the table over in his anger, scaring Mrs Hudson out of the room. _Be careful what you wish for._

She understands John's anger, it is Sherlock she doesn't understand. He should be condemning her, but instead he's defending her. He says, "John, listen, be calm and answer me, what is she?"

"My lying wife."

"No, what is she?"

"The woman who's carrying my child who has lied to me since the day I met her."

"No, not in this flat, not in this room, right here, right now, what is she?"

John is sneering at her. He seems only seconds away from violence, and she wonders for a moment which of them is the better shot. Her father had taught her to shoot. Hours on the range with hands that were almost too small to hold the gun. _Did my mother have a gun?_

He turns his head and says to Sherlock, "Okay, your way. Always your way." Then he picks up a chair and puts it firmly down in the middle of the room. "Sit!" he tells her.

"Why?" she asks.

He spits out his words."Because that's where they sit! The people who come in here with their stories. The clients. That's all you are now Mary, a client. This is where you sit and talk, and this is where we sit and listen. Then we decide if we want you or not."

The hate in his eyes looks familiar. Like her father's eyes. She imagines herself with a bullet hole in her chest. Blond hair falling to the floor.

John turns away from her then and sits in his chair. Sherlock moves into the room and takes his. They are waiting for her.

Her father looked up from the body when he'd caught her watching. She had wanted to run then too, but he had already seen her. He held out his hand, the gun still smoking in the other. She had walked forward then and put her hand in his. What else could she do?

She feels the same churning feeling in her stomach as she walks forward and sits down in the chair.


	16. Rapunzel

The cab drops Mary off at the corner and she walks her lonely way to the door of her flat. She is coming home alone.

It is no surprise that John decided to stay the night at the hospital. It is also no surprise that she is not welcome to stay with him. Sherlock is in serious condition, but he isn't expected to die, and the look that John gives her before she leaves suggests that if he does die, she will not long outlive him.

The look on John's face, threatening, dark, and dangerous wasn't one that she had ever expected to see directed at her. That isn't the John Watson that she knows, the quirky, sad man with a horrid mustache and a shy smile. It certainly wasn't the John at her wedding, strong and happy, and so, so loving. This was the angry man who had twisted her arms painfully behind her back in that hotel room on their honeymoon. The man who would kill with a grin. How could she know a man so well, and yet not really know him at all? Then again, what right did _she_ have to think such a thing.

She unlocks the door and walks in, only to freeze as she notices that the lights are on. Clutching her hand around the gun in her pocket, she enters the flat slowly, turning the corner to see a Middle aged man in a three piece suit sitting on her couch.

"Hello Mrs Watson," he says. "I'm Mycroft Holmes. I thought that it was about time that we met."

Two men come from behind the door and grab her arms. She pulls forward in an attempt to get away from them, only to stop when a gun is pressed to the side of her head by a brunette in high-heels.

They search her clothes, removing her pistol and her wrist knife as well as her keys. Then they step away from her, but she notices that the woman never puts away her gun.

"Please, Mrs Watson, have a seat. It is, afterall, your home."

Mary strides into the center of her living room staying well back from the man on the couch and distancing herself from the hawk-eyed woman in heels as she says, "I prefer to stand, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind. I would offer you refreshment, but as this is your home, It would seem ungenerous."

"Yes, I see that you have the power to reach me here in my own home. I get that. Now can you go on with whatever it is you came here to say."

"You are direct. Good. That will make things easier. You shot my brother, Sherlock."

"Yes," she says. No need to lie. If he means to kill her, he will kill her. There is nothing that she can do to avoid it at this point.

"You meant to kill him."

"Yes."

"You sought him out today with the intention of killing him so that he would not inform your husband of your… shall we call it... your colorful past."

"Yes."

"But Sherlock got to him first, and he now knows who you are and what you are."

"He knows what I am, yes. You seem to have all of the answers already. What is it you want with me?"

"I could have you killed."

"Obviously."

"But it would probably cause distress to your husband and thus might adversely affect my brother's recovery."

"So, you aren't going to kill me?"

"I said that it might affect his health adversely. Your going free might affect his health adversely as well since you seem hellbent on destroying him."

"I don't want to hurt Sherlock."

"You could have fooled me," Mycroft said, his false smile turning into a much more honest frown. "You see, we are faced with a dilemma. My brother has placed himself in harm's way and drawn the attention of someone whose interest in you is something that we both would rather avoid."

"Magnussen."

"Yes, Charles Augustus Magnussen. Do not think that he will simply dismiss this attempt on his life. That is not his way. Magnussen is a spiteful, petty man. It will not take him long to plot his revenge, and when he does, then my intrusion of your house will be the least of your worries."

"Then I'll leave."

"I wouldn't suggest that. First of all, Magnussen's reach is international. Don't think that he won't be able to find your little villa in the Greek Islands, or that hotel in Paris you like to frequent. He has influence over the Swiss bankers that administer your hidden bank accounts, and knows the names and phone numbers of the relatives of the underworld bosses you were sent to eliminate. You would not last a month. If you are lucky they might give you a quick death. But considering the people who hate you, and the method you used to kill a certain politician we both know, I wouldn't bet on it."

"What is it you want? Because you wouldn't have come here if you didn't want something."

"It is so good to talk to someone who puts her head before her heart for a change."

"So, tell me. What do you want?"

"Your child."

"Excuse me? You can't just buy a child like that. I thought that you were supposed to be the British Government. Trading in human lives…!"

"Please calm yourself, Mrs Watson. You misunderstand me. I mean to let you continue with your life, to let you stay here with your husband and raise your child in the land of your choosing. The child is, afterall, a British citizen. We will protect you and your family from those that Magnussen might send against you and use our influence to prevent him from retaliating. You can have a normal life. The life that you always wanted. The life you've dreamed of."

"What's the cost?"

"Nothing that you will be opposed to. First, you must stop all attempts to harm my brother. Any movement in that direction and you will be eliminated immediately."

"Yes, alright. I agree to that."

"Second. You will make no attempts to leave this country, or even London without my express permission for the move. We will be watching you, and protection entails a certain loss of liberties."

"Yes. And the rest of it."

"And you will protect the person of John Watson whenever he will let you, as his continued health is of importance to my brother's state of mind."

"Alright. I would do this anyway. What else?"

"Being a nurse is a noble profession, but it is a waste of your skills. You will also, from time to time, work in an unofficial capacity for the British Government doing jobs that we need done, but cannot openly do ourselves."

"You want me become an assassin again? You want me to kill for you!"

"Please don't try to pretend that you are affronted by this suggestion. The gun that my men removed from your possession is hardly a child's toy. And I am certain that if the bullets were examined, they would match those used in a crime that is, at this time, still on the books as unsolved. Magnussen might sell the information of your identity to others, but if the wife of Sherlock Holmes' best friend was known to have shot him, the attempted murder case would be...perhaps even bigger than the Moriarty trial. My brother has become quite famous. I think that there would be very few people in England or around the world for that matter, who would not hear about the case. Think of who might come for you then."

"Alright. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. Simply go on with life as you would normally. Go to work. Prepare for your child. Reconcile with your husband, if possible. When we need you, we will contact you." Mycroft Holmes rises to his feet and heads for the door.

Suddenly, Mary remembers that he's just threatened her child. A fierce protectiveness overcomes her and she holds her belly as she calls out after him. "You can't have my child!"

Mycroft Holmes stops in his tracks, then he turns to face her. "Mrs Watson, let me make myself clear. I don't care at all about the life of you or your child. In my mind it would be a much neater world if both of you were to quietly disappear, and if I could be certain to do it in a way that would never be found out, I wouldn't hesitate. But I care very deeply for the health and well being of my brother, and as misguided as his words were, he has said that he will protect the life of you and your child, and for the time being, so will I. But if I hear any hint that you plan to do him or John Watson harm, any harm at all, I will not hesitate. Do we have an understanding, Mrs Watson?"

"Yes, I understand you perfectly."

"Good. You'll excuse me if I don't stay for tea. Good Evening, Mrs Watson."

He walks out of the house followed by his security men and the woman in heels who never once lowers her gun. Mary stands still for a minute breathing heavily, the shock of her encounter only now coming to her. Then the kettle whistle blows.

Mary finds her best china laid out on a tray. There is milk, sugar and even lemons, none of which she bought. She wonders for a moment if the tea is poisoned. Then she fills the pot and lets it brew before making herself a cup.

She and her child will be protected. It is actually very good news. Odd and unlikely as it the situation is, it is the best outcome that she could have hoped for. Even so, she seems to have become the mother in the fairy tale, Rapunzel. Having been caught by the evil witch she must give up her child. How long will he allow her to spend with the baby, she wonders. How long before he sends her off on a mission from which she will never return. No need to worry about that now. If he wants the child, at least that means that the tea is safe. She takes a sip and smiles. It is, as expected, excellent.


	17. A girl!

Mary shifts uncomfortably in the plastic chair. It seems to have shrunk from the last time that she was here. She looks at the door. She had texted John the time and date of the doctor's appointment, but there had been no reply. She had got no acknowledgement of any of her texts to John. She supposes that if the phone had been canceled then she would receive a message saying so. She waits.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out a book to read. The bag is large and soft with a pattern of purple irises. It is a gift from the girls at the surgery. They threw her a baby shower over the weekend after her last day of work.

.

They had knocked on the door and barged in with balloons, gift bags and tooting horns. She had done her best to make things seem normal at home. When they'd asked where John was, she lied, giving some feeble excuse. She didn't know why she kept up the facade that everything between them was still happy. Perhaps because they would ask why, and it would be awkward to admit the truth. She shouldn't care about public opinion, but for some reason she can't admit that her marriage of only a few months might, already, be over.

Then someone asked how John's was getting along in his _new_ job. "Fine," she'd said hiding her shock before rushing to the kitchen to check on ' _something she'd left cooking_ '. She had cried then. _Hormones._ She used the sound of the microwave to cover her sobs.

That Monday, she dropped by the clinic to look for a scarf she'd left behind. At least that's what she said. She actually spent her time looking through John's personnel file. She found his letter of resignation and a request for reference from a clinic near Baker Street. She'd thought then, " _John isn't coming back."_

 _._

Mary looks up at the sound of the door being pushed open. John enters looking handsome, if a little haggard. His face is freshly shaved. His hair pushed back away from his forehead. She notices a bandage on his hand. His knuckles are bruised as if he's been punching through walls, or perhaps a mirror. He sees her, his dark blue eyes shifting to the floor a moment later. She finds herself breathing heavily, her eyes glancing demurely at her hands as he passes close by her sitting down with one seat between them.

She looks at him, but he is staring forward, avoiding her gaze. _Oh. He hasn't forgiven me_. She wants to talk to him, to ask him about his new job, about his hand; about whether he ever plans to come home, but the empty seat between them is like a chasm. She can't cross it. It is as if Sherlock is sitting there, his damaged, bleeding body keeping them apart. She turns away.

"Mrs Watson!" the nurse calls, and they both rise, following as she is led through a weighing and then a check-up in a small pastel-colored room. She does as instructed. He stands at her side. They both know the routine. The doctor comes in some time later. He chats, smiles, and makes jokes. Mary smiles back for both of them.

She lays on the couch and lifts up her shirt to show a swollen abdomen. The ultrasound jelly is cold against her skin. It warms quickly though, and soon she is staring at a black and white screen, a whooshing sound filling the small examination room. An arc of white static on the screen slowly resolves into a beating heart.

They hear the baby's heartbeat. They can see it now, four chambers stretching and squeezing. John leans forward, captivated. Mary as well. She knew the baby was there, that it was real, but she didn't let herself think about it much. As he moves the paddle around showing fingers and toes, lungs and heart, she realizes that the thing inside her is a little person, a new human, a life that they have made together.

"It's a girl," he says changing the image to show her face. _A girl!_

Mary looks at John and sees wonder on his face as he stares at the screen. That is the face of his daughter. His eyes are wide, his cheeks raised up in a smile. He turns to her grinning widely. Amazement visible in every line, then his eyes turn dark and his cheeks lower. His mouth straightens into a thin line and suddenly all joy is gone from his face.

"She's perfectly healthy and right on track. The two of you must be so very happy."

"Oh yes," Mary says, "We're overjoyed. Thank you, Doctor."

He turns off the machine handing each of them a little paper printout of their daughter's face. John shoves it into his pocket without looking at it. Mary fights to keep a pleasant look on her face. She slowly unzips her bag, and slips the paper inside.

They pass out of the room and down the hall. She opens the door to reception and trips on the threshold, falling forward. She braces herself, but instead of pain and a hard floor, she feels warm hands holding on to her. She turns her head to find that John has caught her. He pulls her back onto her feet. She looks up into his face and sees the concern in his eyes.

 _John, my John._

They continue walking slowly through the room and out of the office. All of the time his hands remain on her, steadying her, one on her shoulder and one on her waist. The contact is warm and human. She slows her steps, and he stays with her. She doesn't want to say or do anything that will make him take those hands away. This is the first time that he's touched her since that night in the empty houses.

They stand in the hallway outside of the office, unmoving. Mary stares at the teal carpet, hoping that if she doesn't move, neither will he, but he does. He steps away from her, and the skin that was once beneath his hands goes immediately cold. She looks up, but he's already walking away. She watches his back as he strides down the hall. He turns pushing open a door to enter the stairwell.

"John!" she calls, but the only reply she gets is the sound of the door slamming shut behind him.


	18. Spiral

Mary returns to their home, alone. John's touch reminds her of all of the things that she misses about him. She wants to see him, but there is no way that she's going to Baker Street again. At Baker Street, she had felt like a little child, accused, alone, hurt. No one offered comfort. No one offered sympathy. She had to be strong.

 _John knows where I live. If he wants to see me, he will have to make the first move._

She goes into the kitchen and eats a banana. _It is so quiet._

She should talk to someone. She pulls out her phone and stares at it. Who can she call? The nurses from the surgery? They would surely ask about John. She leafs through the names in her address book and finds that most of her friends are actually John's friends. The rest are people that she certainly doesn't want to confide in.

She can go out. She needs new clothes as hers no longer fit well, but she'd rather go out with someone. Strange. She always used to be such a loner. Have the last five years changed her so much?

She sees Janine's number, and she dials. Janine won't ask about John, or if she does, she won't really care what Mary says. She's shallow and selfish, but those very qualities make her perfect company. Mary doesn't care how many pairs of shoes it costs her. She is tired of being alone.

The message goes to voice mail. "Hi, this is Janine. I've gone on vacation to the Greece, so I can't answer your calls, but if you are handsome, rich, and unmarried, leave a message and I will certainly return your call when I get back. BEEP!" Mary jabs the disconnect button with her thumb. _Useless woman. I should have hit her harder._

She goes into the living room and sits down in the chair staring at the dark screen of the telly. John loved to watch telly, the stupider the show, the better he liked it. Mary never got the hang of it, but she enjoyed watching John watch telly. He would crack jokes about the shows or the people, snide little remarks that would set her off laughing. Sometimes he would talk about Sherlock and how he had once deduced someone's paternity by the turn ups on his jeans.

 _Sherlock! Why does John care so much about that man? He married me! The bastard! How dare he abandon me here. How long does he plan to stay away? So what if I shot Sherlock. I did it for our happiness! Doesn't he care about me any more? He swore that we'd be together forever. Liar! Does he ever plan to come home? Why pretend anymore? Why should I maintain this farce of a married life if he's already decided to leave?_

Mary jumps to her feet thrusting her hands to her side so violently that she knocks the lamp off the table. The shade falls off and rolls across the floor. She covers her eyes with her hands, and takes a deep breath getting herself under control. Then she walks around to pick up the mess she's made of the lamp.

She picks up the lamp and places it back on the table, then she reaches for the lamp shade but stops when she sees a small black device on the carpet. She tilts her head to the side and stares at it. Then she picks it up and holds it between her fingers as she examines it. It is a listening device, a bug. Someone has bugged her flat. John wouldn't do such a thing, and although Sherlock would, he's in hospital. She smiles. _I'd bet money that it's Mycroft Holmes who put this in, and he'd be a fool if he didn't have one in each room._

She reaches forward and turns the telly on loud. Then she walks around the house looking behind pictures and in drawers for more bugs. She finds them scattered throughout the house. Her smile gets wider as her guesses are right on the mark. She finds one in each room, including the bathroom and hall closet.

She goes to the kitchen and sets a pot of water on the stove. She drops each bug into the pot with relish, hoping to burst the eardrums of whoever is listening in. She boils them for half an hour then lets them cool, before crushing them carefully with the heel of her shoe, shattering each one against the hard kitchen tiles. She sweeps up the fragments and throws them in the trash. Then she sits down and makes a sandwich for dinner.

It becomes a ritual of sorts. She rises, showers, dresses and makes breakfast. Then she does the sweep for new bugs. They put them in when she goes shopping or any other time that errands lead her out of the house. At least it gives her something to do.

Which is good, because she's bored with living alone. She's no good at knitting, And although she enjoys baking, it's only fun when there is someone around to eat the things that she makes. Maybe she should leave some biscuits out for the people who put in the bugs each day. They are the closest she has these days to friends. Perhaps she could fill them with rat poison. Would it be considered murder if they ate them?

As the weeks go by, they become better and better at hiding the bugs, so she comes up with a trick to make them easier to find. Each day after breakfast, she sprays the carpet and all of the surfaces of the house with a thin mixture of club soda and laundry detergent. Then at night, after she's turned off all of the lights in the house and gone to bed. She rises. Puts on her slippers, and pulls out a portable UV lamp. She walks through the house as quietly as a mouse and shines it on each surface.

The fluorescent compounds that she has coated the house with let off a dim blue glow. It makes the foot prints and the hand swipes easy to see. Even gloved hands can smear the surface of a table. She follows the path of heeled footprints to a wall switch that has been replaced so neatly that she didn't notice it. A dim mark on a throw pillow leads her to find a suspicious lump in the lining. She makes note of their locations and then goes to sleep only to rip them out the following morning.

It comes time for another doctor's appointment. She texts John and waits in the uncomfortable plastic chair for him to arrive. She watches, but she doesn't see him until they call her name. He walks in then, as if he had been waiting outside the door. He stands beside her all through the examination, but he never talks to her directly, and he avoids eye contact. She slows her step as they leave, and he reaches out and touches her waist again, but this time he pushes her quickly through the lobby and out of the door. Once outside, he turns without a word and leaves, having never talked to her once.

She goes home again, alone. She enters the flat with heavy steps and sits in John's chair staring at the darkened telly. She is exhausted. She is tired of this entire situation, so she skips dinner and goes directly to bed. She wakes the next morning at three and takes her customary walk around the flat finding the new bugs that they've installed before going back to her bed.

She lies there, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of distant traffic coming in through the window.

 _What am I to John now? Am I still his wife? Am I only, like Mycroft Holmes implies, a baby factory here to pump out a child for them to control? What will they do to me after she's born? If it was me, I'd do it immediately after. A routine vitamin shot taken post-partum. 'How were we to know she'd have an allergic reaction?' they'll say. 'Oh how tragic, a mother dying like that. The poor child.'_

 _Maybe I should leave the country now, but how? It's hard to be invisible when you're pregnant. And where can I go that CAM's money and influence won't reach?_

She sighs turning on her side to look out of the window only to notice the first rays of the sun streaming in. She climbs out of bed, showers and dresses. Then she goes to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. After breakfast, she puts on an apron and gloves, and sets about removing all of the bugs that she found the night before.

While spraying a new coat of dye on the curtains, she receives a text. It's from David, her old boyfriend. He wants to invite her out for lunch. David is boring and a bit creepy. When she broke it off with him, he hounded her begging for a second chance so often that she broke down and gave him one more try. It was a mistake, and she had avoided him ever since, but now… it would be good to sit and talk with someone again. To have a conversation and just forget her current situation for a while. She returns his text saying 'Yes, she would love to meet him for lunch today.' Then she puts away her cleaning things and starts a load of dishes.

She's in the bedroom trying to find a set of clothes that still fit when the bell rings. She opens the door to find David standing there with a large takeaway bag.

"David! I thought that we were meeting in town."

"I thought it might save time if I brought lunch to you."

"Well, that's nice, but I'm not even dressed yet."

"You look fine. You look great actually. Can I come in? I have sushi."

"Sushi!" Mary cries taking the bag out of his hands a rushing into the kitchen. David follows her watching as she opens the bags and unpacks the deluxe platter. "Oh my God! You don't know how much I've been craving sushi lately. John won't let me eat it. Something about the mercury levels in tuna, but at this point, I'm willing to throw caution to the wind. David, you are a life saver!"

Mary sits down and pulls out a piece with fatty tuna. She takes a bite and then sighs with contentment. David watches her eat his eyes greedy for more than food.

"I'm so glad you agreed to see me," he says. "I've been meaning to talk to you for ages but every time I tried to get in touch with you, that psychopath would send me another intimidating message. But he can't do that anymore, can he now?"

Mary listens with half an ear as she starts in on the salmon.

"I don't think that marriage has been good for you. You aren't being treated with the respect that you deserve."

"Isn't that the definition of a housewife, someone who isn't treated with the respect that they deserve?" Mary says with a smirk before starting in on the octopus.

David moves his chair a bit closer to her. "Your _so called_ husband. Where is he?"

 _So called?_ "He's out visiting a sick friend," Mary said.

"Isn't a month a long time for a visit or has it been two months now?"

Mary turns toward him licking her fingers. She wipes them on a napkin and frowns. "David, I appreciate your concern, and the food is very much appreciated, but I really don't know where you're getting this information."

"Your husband has abandoned you!" he says. "He's left you for his best man. I was at the wedding. I could see what was going on. You took John from Sherlock, but now that he's hurt, John's gone back to him. He's left you."

"No he hasn't!" Mary says with a bit more force than she feels.

"Then where is he?"

"David!"

"He doesn't respect you. He doesn't deserve you, Ana full of grace!"

Mary freezes. _Ana full of grace? That's what father used to call me!_

"How do you know that name?" Mary asks unable to keep the shock out of her voice.

"I've always known it, ever since I was a boy."

"A boy? Do you mean that you..."

"Yes, Ana. I know who you really are. I'm, David Luca. You and I...we're family."

 _They found her! Oh God! She hasn't escaped her family after all._


	19. Family

A summer garden. Hibiscus flowers blooming in a concrete vase. Stone railings looking out onto a peaky sea. Her father motions for her to approach. "Ana, come say hello to the Lucas"

She slides a smile onto her lips and turns to greet them. Mr Luca is a wide man with a big neck and an ugly brown mustache. His son, Victor, is taller, blond with a bit of a sneer on him and shoulders almost as wide as his father's. His eyes stroke up and down her legs. She had worn the short blue dress at her father's insistence. He had wanted her to make a good impression. Victor is her fiance after all.

What he didn't know was that they'd met before in the French Riviera. She had come along with Papa to do some shopping and met Victor while he was waiting for his father to get out of a lunch meeting. Oh, she knew Victor, alright. Large groping hands and a lustful tongue. A dirty deed done against the wall of a hospital powder room while their fathers sat downstairs arguing over territory. It was just something to relieve the boredom. Now, two years later, their alliance needed to be solidified in a more permanent fashion, and they were both conveniently single.

At first she had refused, but her father had cornered her at the firing range and explained that this was what was best for the family. The Lucas had a name and good connections. They had been good partners for now, but blood is blood, and the boy fancied her. Also, Luca senior had agreed that her father could lead both families as long as he named Victor as his successor, but since they both knew that Victor was as dumb as dirt, they expected her to guide his actions, and therefore she would truly be the next leader of the family.

So she'd listened to her father and wore the white shoes and the pale blue dress that barely covered her as she faked being cute and docile. Victor leered, and their fathers smiled at the two of them. But they weren't the only ones there.

Mrs Luca's hair was red, obviously dyed. She had an elongated face and a well proportioned body, and she was very much younger than her husband. At her side stood a thin little boy with a narrow face and legs as long as a fawn. His blue eyes were huge, and the imbalance in his features made him look ugly. But she smiled as she bent down to talk to him.

"So who is this handsome young man?" she said staring into those wide eyes as she took his hand.

"This is David Luca."

"Well, hello little Davy. So pleasant to meet you," she'd said much preferring to speak to the boy rather than spending time with his half-brother whose lustful gazes were tearing through the thin fabric of her dress." Years later, she would shoot Victor in his jeering face after he found her letting the troups inside to raid the compound. She'd never seen the boy again. She looked for him now in the face of the man standing before her.

"You're Davy? Little Davy Luca?"

He grinned. "I always hoped that you would recognize me on your own one day, but Mummy took me back to Italy, and then there was school in England. I took her name there. Luca was a bit too well known to carry around with me. I met you by chance one day on the streets of London. I knew you the minute I saw you. You called yourself 'Mary', but I'd changed my name too, so ...

Mary put her fingers on his lips to stop him talking. Then she reached out and turned on the radio before grabbing him and pulling him into the pantry

"Ana, what are you?"

Mary closed the pantry door behind her pushing the two together in the cramped space. "Take off your shirt," she barked in a harsh whisper.

David's puzzled expression transformed into a smile, and he crossed his arms to pull off his jumper. Then he slowly started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Oh, for goodness sake get a move on!" Mary said reaching out to unbutton it herself before pushing it off his shoulders.

"Hold on, love. I didn't know that you were this desperate," David said reaching out toward her.

"Shut up!" Mary said dodging his awkward kiss as she wrenched his right arm up over his head and stared at the hair under his arms. After a few moments searching she found it. The small double 8 tattoo that marked him as one of the family. She had one of her own of course. John had found it in one of his unusually thorough sexual investigations of her body. She had brushed it off, claiming that it was the number of the room where she had lost her virginity. He had joked that he would have needed a longer tattoo as he had lost his in the back seat of his girlfriend's car.

David stilled realizing that she had brought him here to confirm his story, and not for some sexual escapade. Still, He looked down at her with longing eyes, his mouth slightly open.

"Well, little Davy, It is you. You never let on who you were. I am impressed. So what do you plan to do now? Are you here to get revenge for your brother, Victor?"

David snorted. "Victor was an Ape. He said mean things to my mother, and he touched her. If you hadn't shot him, I would have done it myself."

"You said you recognized me."

"I could never have forgotten you, Ana. Never, not since the moment I first saw you."

"But who did you tell? Who else knows about me?"

"No one! No one except mother."

"Your mother knows?"

"Yes, I told her when I first met you."

"And what did she say?"

"She said that you were a spy now, and that I had better not be a dick and blow your cover."

Mary smiled, "Sounds like her. So why didn't you tell me who you were? Are you spying on me? Did the family tell you to spy on me?"

"No, Ana, no. I would never do anything against you."

"Then why tell me now? What is it you want?"

"I thought that now you might want my help. I can't believe you are staying here by choice."

Mary frowned. David's mouth was still open. His roving eyes reminded her of his half-brother. "Put your shirt on David," she ordered. He bent down and picked it up.

"Ana. You do know that your father is dead."

"Yes, I know. Even I read the papers. Died in prison. Who is the head of the family now?"

"Your uncle, Cassius."

"Cass? But Cass is an idiot. You need to be clever to lead..."

"That's exactly what Mother said. That's why I think that we should go back."

"We?"

"You. The rule of the family is yours by right. Your father was boss, and you are his only child. You have the brains to do the family justice."

"Go back? But I betrayed..."

"You objected to your father killing your mother. You made a break to get out on your own. They won't hold that against you, not now that you have a child to follow in your footsteps. I think it's time for you to take your place. The place that was destined for you from the start. Do you really think that my father expected Victor to lead? They told him that, but everyone knew that you were the one they were grooming. Ana, its time to go back."

Home. It was a place Mary thought lost to her forever. Her leaving had been spectacular, Testifying against her own father, confirming that he had killed her mother, a government agent. Her Mother's sacrifice had gone a long way to get her rushed through training. She had left the Island and had an interesting and honored, career, until the first time they had left her behind to die, and she had realized that loyalty was something that only happened to other people.

David had his shirt on now, and he was staring at her intensely. "Ana, why are you here?"

"What?"

"Why are you here in this place pretending to be a housewife, pretending to be a _normal_ person. Do you plan to stay here, to raise a family with that man who doesn't love you? Surely you can't still be on a job. What kind of job would require this much of you?"

"That's my business, I can live where I want."

"But Ana, you can't stay here. Mother warned me just yesterday that someone's put a contract out on your life. A big one. Someone really wants you dead. You won't survive here. You are too exposed. If you come home to the island, the family can protect you. We can protect your son."

"Daughter, she's going to be a girl."

"She won't be anything if you don't live to give birth to her."

Mary put a hand to her belly, then she clenched it into a fist. "I'm being watched. Tell me what you have."

David grinned. "There's a barge on the Thames. It carries steel beams for skyscrapers. The family uses it sometimes for smuggling. Once the steel is offloaded, it returns much faster with a cargo of recyclables bound for France. We can hide you. Once on the ocean, a ship will rendevous with us.

"But barges are slow. Is there a faster way?"

"The airports are too well guarded. No one looks at river traffic."

"When's the next opportunity?"

"It should be coming upriver tomorrow. It will take at least a day to unload. Then it will have to load the new cargo. I think it likely to be leaving Friday about three hours after sunset."

"Make the arrangements."

David beamed, "You're coming? You're really coming home with me?"

"No. You are staying right here. It would be too suspicious if we both left at the same time. Make arrangements, but don't contact me again. Put the time on your Facebook page. Call it Judith's Christening."

"Judith, is that what you plan to name her?" Mary picked up David's coat and handed it to him. "I can't believe that you are really coming back. I can stay for a while. Help you pack."

"I need to be alone. I have some... loose ends that I need to close up here. "

"But..."

"Just make the arrangements. And don't tell anyone who I am. If there's a price on my head…."

"Ana, I may not be as good a shot as you, or as good a planner as my father, but you certainly should know by now how good I am at keeping secrets."

Ana looked up at David's narrow stupid face. She hadn't guessed, not once who he really was. She nodded. Then she opened the pantry door and stepped out into the kitchen.

"Thank you, David for bringing me lunch," she said loudly. "I really enjoyed it. We'll have to do this another time." She walked him to the front door and opened it pushing him out of the door, but he turned pulling her close as he pressed a kiss onto her lips. She pushed him away and then looked around to see who was watching before waving once and closing the door firmly between them.

The smile fell from her face then. She had fought so hard to get away. Was she seriously considering going back? But if there was a contract out on Mary Watson, could she afford to stay? She locked the door and went back to the kitchen to turn off the radio.


	20. Going under

The water was fragrant, rich with the scent of lavender bath salts and rose petals which floated on the surface red as garnets. On the counter atop a folded pink bath towel sat her gun. The doors were locked, and the traps were set, in case someone tried to surprise her. The room glowed with candlelight. In the rest of the house, the lights were out. Mary lowered herself into bath water almost hot enough to burn, and covered her eyes with a wash cloth. She listened to the quiet, soaking it all in.

She was relatively safe at the moment. It usually took a few weeks after a contract was announced for someone to take it. It had to be Magnussen who had issued it. She was a threat to him, and he certainly had enough money to do it. But what really convinced her, is how publicly he must have announced it if even Davy's mother had heard of it. He could have made a private contract, done it in secret, but he'd made it public so that she'd know it was coming, petty man. She needed to calm herself, to give herself time to work through her threats. Mycroft's people would be watching tonight. She'd trust in them, and in luck. She had decisions to make. She put the rest of the world out of her mind, and let the warmth seep into her skin.

Mary had been barely a child when she had started her career, and she had expected every year to be her last. She had spent her life running from job to job. Living in hotel rooms. Hiding out in basements. Sometimes she lived as high as a queen, and other times as poor as a pauper, but she had survived when others hadn't. Mary stroked her neck, and felt a fold of skin there. She was getting old. In none of her plans had she ever expected that. Well, she'd imagined striking it rich and living in the Cayman islands with a host of handsome boy toys until she was old and grey, but she had never imagined herself as she was now: Married, pregnant, and living in a suburban flat.

Once she'd reveled in her ability to pull any man she wanted. She had been young, and sexy, and she strode in through the front door, getting close to her targets with her looks and her personality before carrying out her job and disappearing into the night. But as she aged, it was harder to catch men's eyes. She'd changed then, going in through the back door and making herself look inconspicuous. She became one of those people who was always there, but you never noticed: The maid, the waitress, the nurse, and she'd been more successful because of it. But she'd missed the affirmation of a man's lusty gaze, until John, that is. John had always found her attractive. He loved her body. He even loved her scars! She'd had to lie, saying that she'd taken fencing in college when he recognized the cuts as being from a blade, but he had kissed them, open-mouthed, pleased to find her skin so interesting.

He had been shy and reticent at first, but once he had her, he'd been relentless, especially after Sherlock had returned. He would come back from a case as worked up as a stallion. That was how she had become pregnant. All those times he'd cornered her on the couch, or in the hall, or one memorable time in his office, when the fact that they had no condom available was less of an issue than their absolute _need_ for him to be inside her right this minute! She hadn't worried then, not at her age. She remembered her mother going through menopause, and she'd been younger than Mary was now, so one or two incidents were unlikely to get her pregnant. She'd thought so then, but she had been wrong.

When she lowered her ears into the water, she could hear the gentle thump, thump of her heart beat. She ran her hand along the bulge in her abdomen. It was still small. If she pushed her hips under, she could make it almost unnoticable, as if it wasn't there, but it had already changed her. It had changed the width of her hips, the size of her breasts, her center of balance. Most of all, it had changed her mind, because now she thought that perhaps she wouldn't be the end of the line. Perhaps something of her could survive even after her death.

Mary had always loved her mother, but she had never respected her. She had never understood why her mother had married her father. Was this how her mother had felt? Had she slept with a man to do her job only to find herself accidentally with child? Had she found herself wondering, like Mary was now, if there was any way out of her situation? She must have.

What would her life have been like if her mother had run? Would she have escaped and led a normal life, or was she doomed to watch her mother die, blond hair covered in blood. Was she doomed to become her mother? Would her daughter steal into the room, as she had, to touch her Mother's hand only to find that she'd gone cold and stiff.

She needn't worry about that. Most contracts were not like the one that she had been given. Most jobs were fulfilled and paid within a month of being contracted. And now there was a contract out on her life. That meant that it was most likely her daughter would never be born. She was too early in her pregnancy for the child to survive, even prematurely. Mary rubbed her hand across her belly. She wanted to protect the child inside her. She wanted it so much sometimes that she could hardly breathe.

And then there was John. He hadn't forgiven her, but he hadn't fully spurned her either. That was because of their child. John wanted a child so much that he considered forgiving her for everything that she had done to him, everything that she had done to Sherlock, to have one. He was made to be a father. He was kind and fierce and loyal. Everything that she was not. She was not the wife that he had wanted. He was not the husband she deserved, for she had sowed betrayal, and all that she could expect to reap was bitterness.

She took the cloth off of her face and dropped it on the floor. She'd made her decision. If she wanted to live, she had to leave. But if she went back home, would the family accept her? Just as likely they'd flay her alive the moment she returned. Mary lay back inhaling the pleasant scents and trying to think pleasant thoughts, but the rose petals looked too much like blood, and the herbs tasted bitter in her mouth.

She took a moment to dream of the life she might have had. She could imagine a baby with golden hair and pink skin strapped to her father's front. Or an older child in a red dress going to a Christmas play. Presents in front of a tree, and John's face as he looked at her, so proud of his daughter who'd been picked to play the lead. Mary tasted salt on her lips. She was crying, crying for a life that would never be. Normally, she wouldn't tolerate such weakness, but she decided to let herself cry this one time, because she knew that she would never be pregnant again, and John would never let her leave, not as long as she was carrying his child.


	21. Goodbye

The sitting room in 221B Baker street was dark when she arrived. John was sitting in his chair. The only lamp lit was the round one that glowed like the moon. It was as if she had gone back in time. This was the old John, the John she had first met in the surgery. The John missing Sherlock.

"Hello Mary," he said without turning his head. "Why are you here?"

"I came to see my husband," Mary said. "How is Sherlock?"

John frowned, his profile sharp with shadows as he spat out, "As if you care."

"Just making conversation."

"Then I'll ask again, why are you here?"

"John, why won't you come home?"

"Do you have to ask?"

"It appears so."

He turned to face her then. His features hard, his voice filled with anger. "If you must know, Sherlock is in a coma. All that running around in a damp house, all that talking. It was too much for a man so recently in critical condition. I should have known. I should have taken him back to the hospital the moment I first saw him, but I let him talk me into that….exhibition because I didn't trust his word above yours. And my foolishness, nearly cost him his life. It has very likely cost him his mind, because they think that he may never wake up. I just came back from the hospital for a shower and a shave. I'm supposed to get some rest, but for some reason, I can't sleep. So can you understand now why i haven't come home? Do you have an inkling why I won't leave the sickbed of my best friend to lie down beside the woman who shot him?

"But I suppose you're right. I did marry you. You are my wife, so I should at least be civil. So tell me, Mrs Watson, how was your day?"

Mary walked forward putting her body between John and the lamp. Then she said "I lost the baby."

John jumped to his feet. "Oh God, when?"

"This morning, in the bath."

"No one told me."

"No one else knows. It was very sudden."

"Oh Mary," he said voice full of compassion as he rushed toward her. He reached for her, but she put out a hand to stop him. "You should have called. You should be in hospital. If you lost her this morning, you could start bleeding again. Let me take a look at you."

"No."

She thrust a large envelope into his hands.

"What is this?"

"Divorce papers signed by Mary Morstan Watson. I'm sure that you can get a lawyer to file them for you. Try Sherlock's brother. He seems to be good with legal things. "

"But why?"

"Do you have to ask? You said it yourself. I shot your best friend. I married you under false pretenses. You have no plans to come back to me. Do you seriously think that we could just put this all behind us?"

"But Mary..."

"That child has never been more than a burden to you. Something that kept you bound in a lifeless marriage, and now that she's gone, there's nothing left to hold you."

John took the package, and dropped it to the floor. Then he stepped forward and touched her shoulder. "But Mary, the baby. I'm sorry," John pulled her into a hug. "I'm so sorry," he whispered," I loved her too."

Something inside Mary broke then. She collapsed against John and began to cry. John held her tightly, rocking her slowly as she clutched his jumper, her fingers digging into it as tears flowed down her cheeks.

John was still who he had always been, a kind man, a loving man. Despite knowing who she was, despite knowing what she'd done, he cared about her feelings. Even though he was worried sick about Sherlock, he'd spared a moment's compassion for her. She cried for the loss of their life together. The life that they might have had if only she had been honest from the start. She lifted her head and felt the slide of his skin against her cheek. She knew then that this was what love felt like. She loved John Watson, and it was horrible.

"Come away with me," she said. "We can start again. I have connections, contacts, they can get us to a safe place. We can make a new life, just you and I. We can have children somewhere that no one can harm us."

"No," John said.

"Why not?"

"Sherlock," he said as if that answered everything, and in a way it did.

Mary stepped back, and for a moment they just stared at each other. Then she turned away, and walked out of the room.

"Goodbye, Mary," John said. She looked back once into eyes black as the midnight seas, but she didn't trust herself to say anything. She left by Sherlock's window into the darkness of the alley. Then she headed off toward the river.

She had only gone three blocks when she noticed the person following her, a tall man in a brown leather coat who had copied her twisting path away from Baker street. She tried not to be conspicuous as she rushed past people who were enjoying the start of their weekend. The man put his hand into his pocket, a pocket large enough to hold a good sized hand gun.

She rushed across the street then, horns blaring behind her as she darted into an alley. The loud sound of horns announced that he was running after her now. She picked up speed and turned onto another street and into another alley. She could hear the sound of footsteps. Soon he would reach the alley, and she would be in his line of sight. Their was no cover, but she was almost at the street. If she could only get to the next corner.

A black car pulled up in front of her and skidded to a stop. A door opened and a woman leaned out.

"Get in!" she yelled.

Mary dived into the car, closing the door just as a bullet bounced off of the window. She turned to look at the man in the brown coat. His face distorted by the fractured rays of the shattered glass that had stopped the bullet aimed directly at her head. The car sped away.

She was taken to a place with grey walls, and mirrors that were surely one way glass. She exchanged her catsuit and corset for a t-shirt and trousers. Hard tables, hard beds. It wasn't a prisons because prisons had records. There were clocks here to mark out time served and time until release. In here there was no time, and if she went missing, no one would know about it.


	22. Birth

The door opened, and a stern faced woman escorted her into an interrogation room, chaining her to the metal table before another door opened to let in Mycroft Holmes. He stared at the bulge that the grey prison shirt and trousers were unable to hide.

"Do you think that wearing a corset at your stage of fecundity was wise?"

"Did you bring me here to criticize my dress sense?"

"You know why you are here. We had an agreement."

"I just paid a visit to my husband. Is that a crime?"

"It is, when you are found bearing a gun, a false passport, and three thousand pounds cash."

"I was shopping for Christmas presents."

He raised his eyebrow, then took a seat across from her. "And before this ' _shopping trip_ ', you visited your husband. To say goodbye, perhaps. I wouldn't have thought you the sentimental type."

"I told John that I lost the baby. I thought that it would be easier that way."

"Easier to do what?"

"To do what you've asked me to do. To work for you."

"We had arranged for you to continue to live with Dr. Watson."

"That only works if I want to live with him, which I don't. Besides, Magnussen has put a contract out on my life."

"Yes. It is unfortunate, but we are working on it?"

"Working on it? How?"

"We may be able to get Magnussen to cancel your contract. He is amenable to trade."

"A man almost shot me today. He was able to find me, do you think that others won't? My cover here is blown. I need to find a new place for me and my child."

"Dr. Watson's child."

"I told him that she was gone, and he believed me. Let me go now, and he never need know that that's not true."

"And why would you have me betray his trust by lying to him?"

"Because as long as I am with him, he is a target. It is neater this way, and I know for a fact that you have no problem with lying."

"How do I know that you won't run, like you did in Brazil."

"I won't run... Oh!" Mary exclaimed pulling back from the table, the handcuffs tugging against her wrists. "It was you, wasn't it! You gave Magnussen the USB stick so that he would blackmail me. You had access to my file. You always knew who I was. That's why you didn't come to the wedding."

Mycroft frowned, but she thought she detected respect in the crinkle of his eye. "Now why would I want to do that?"

"To control me, to contain me. Oh God, you were the one who threw John into the fire!"

"What makes you think so?"

"I met Magnussen. I talked to him. He wouldn't know how to write a skip code to save his life. All that clever wordplay. Someone knew exactly what to say. Someone who knew that Sherlock was reading the texts as well as I. Who else could have watched us moving around London? No one other than Mycroft Holmes, the man with cameras all over the city. You were working with Magnussen. I know you were, but why would you? Oh! ' _Fire reveals where our true priorities lie.'_ "

The corner of Mycroft's mouth raised in a smirk. "When you needed help, you went to Sherlock. John was threatened, and you did everything that you could to save his life. It was sufficient to prove the sincerity of your affections."

"You weasel! He could have died!"

"There were people standing by. He only suffered minor damage. I thought it had revealed your loyalties, but somehow, I had miscalculated. Why did you shoot Sherlock Holmes?"

"Seriously? You throw my husband into a fire, and then you criticize me for shooting your brother?"

"He was your… friend."

"He's John's friend. But You! You let your brother walk into that office uninformed. You let him go in blind! This was your fault as well as mine."

"I told him to stay away from Magnussen!" Mycroft yelled. Then he took a deep breath and put on his falsest smile. "And no. The fault is nowhere near the same. It is a false dichotomy. It was you who held the gun, not I."

"Let me go." Mary demanded, "Give me back my passport, and get me safely out of this country. I want you to get Magnussen to cancel the contract on my life, and for you never to tell John that his daughter is still alive."

"And why do you believe that I will agree to any of your demands?"

"Because if you kill me, Sherlock might find out, and if he knows, John will too, and if John thinks that you murdered his wife and unborn child, he will not rest until you are dead, and your brother will help him do it."

"My brother is in a coma because of you!"

"And will you take the chance that he will never recover? That when he does, he won't use every bit of his faculties to find out the truth of what happened?"

Mycroft Holmes stroked the bottom of his chin.

"If I release you, you'll never make it to that barge. There are already three people in town hoping to take up that contract, and if they kill you, there will be nothing to link it back to me."

"You know of my family?."

"Yes."

"We can help you. You know my skill set. You know of my family's connections. We could… aid you, unofficially. Give you information. Work with you in ways that are off the books, but will ultimately be of extreme value to you."

"How can you promise these things? You have no standing with your family. You aren't their leader."

"Not yet, but I will be. Do you doubt it? John is my husband, and Sherlock and John are like brothers. That makes you almost one of the family. Help us, and my daughter and I will remember who to thank."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, then he motioned and the guard unlocked her handcuffs.

"We'll return your things, and my private jet will drop you wherever you wish to go, but I will remember what you said, and if you want my "niece" to remain safely in your care, then I suggest you keep your end of the agreement. My people will take you straight to the airport, but I can send someone to your house if there is anything else that you need. For reasons that go without saying, it would be unwise of you to retrieve them yourself."

"Thank you," Mary said rubbing her wrists. "I have a bag packed in my room, and I would like… could you have someone bring the solar system mobile, and the baby's quilt. It should be in the crib."

"The quilt? The one made by Dr Watson's grandmother?"

"Yes, that one. I like the color."

"Of course," he said, the curve of his lips telling her that he knew that it wasn't just the color that made her want it. The smile that showed that he knew that Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only one with a sentimental attachment to John Watson.

...

Rosamund Watson Alexandros was born some months later in the same room where Ana had been born, safe and surrounded by family. Ana held her daughter in her arms, swaddled in her great grandmother's quilt. She was a beauty with deep, dark blue eyes, and wisps of blond hair peeking out from under her white knit cap, her tiny feet kept warm by a pair of hand knit white stockings.


End file.
